


Better To Die A Hero

by Barbara69



Series: To Conquer Death [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Feels, Brotherhood, Changed History/Bent History, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt Porthos, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Terrorism, Kidnapping, Reborn Musketeers, Terrorists, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-09-30 00:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 48,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17213315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbara69/pseuds/Barbara69
Summary: Sequel toThe Wind That Shakes The LilyTréville was shot, currently hovering between life and death. The Musketeers rush to the hospital to be at their captain's side, trying to find out who is behind the assault, while inside and outside of Paris old enemies are drawing nearer. In the middle of their investigations, the Inseparables receive horrific news.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For **Sara** who was persistent in asking when (or if at all) this story would ever be written. Her continued request was the most needed kick up the backside for me to keep writing after lying idle for a long time.
> 
> So. I'm back. Sorry for the long wait. Many things happened this year which kept me from writing, and not all of them were good. It's safe to say I'm glad when this year is past and here's hoping the next one will be much better! 
> 
> All chapters are written, but about half of the story still needs to be revised, so I can't promise a regular update, but I'll try to post once a week. Many thanks to **fredbasset** for doing the beta again and for all the explanations, comments, hints and the fine-tuning and for helping me getting the right dose of h/c (especially in relation to Aramis) to this story. Many thanks to **gecko10** who read the story as a WIP, listened patiently to my wailing and brainstormed with me when I ran out of ideas. All remaining errors, typos and holes in the plot are solely my responsibility. 
> 
> Happy New Year!

_What happened earlier…_

_Charlène listened to the caller for a moment, not once replying to anything. Then she let the hand with the receiver sink, staring wide-eyed at Athos. “It was Lieutenant Danglard. He called to let you know that Detective Chief Superintendent Peyrer has been shot. He's being rushed to the hospital right now, but they don't think he'll make it.”_

**Chapter 1**

“This cannot be,” whispered Aramis in horror, staring at Athos.

Porthos blanched, grabbing Aramis' shoulder for support. Suddenly his legs seemed unable to hold him up any more.

Athos tried unsuccessfully to clear his throat. When he spoke, his voice was rough and scratchy. “Did he say which hospital?”

Charlène stirred from her stupor and finally put the handset down. “He said Saint-Antoine.”

“We'll need at least twenty minutes if we take the metro,” said Aramis, obviously already calculating their chances of arriving at the hospital before Tréville died. “We might be quicker in a car or a taxi.”

“Take mine, I'll catch up and meet you there,” Athos replied, fishing the car keys from his pocket.

Porthos, already turning towards the door, stopped. “What?”

Surprised, Aramis looked at Athos, asking “You’re not coming with us?”

“I need to check something first. I'll meet you there. Go ahead.”

Aramis and Porthos glanced at each other, Aramis stepping up to Athos. “Athos,” he said urgently. “There might not be much time.”

“I said I will follow you. And don't say there won't be time.” Athos glowered at Aramis. “He will not die.” Athos' voice sounded more hopeful than convinced, but it silenced Aramis.

“Come as soon as possible,” Porthos said, done with wasting any more time on discussion. He left the office to tell d'Artagnan, relying on Aramis to take the keys and follow him.

“Very well. I'll see you there.” Aramis darted a last glance at Athos before leaving.

Athos turned and he and Charlène silently looked at each other. “Maybe you can try to reach the lieutenant again or the commissioner's office and find out more,” he muttered.

Charlène nodded and sank down on her chair, turning to her computer to scroll through her contact list.

Athos stalked to his office, carefully closing the door behind him. He sat behind his desk with a deep sigh and unlocked the upper drawer, groping around at the far end of it until he got hold of the USB stick he kept there. Staring at the stick in his hand he closed the drawer. It was unmarked, no external hint as to what was saved there, but Athos knew very well what information the stick held. It was the one Tréville had given him, relying on Athos to destroy it after they had watched its content together. He plugged the stick into his desktop and started the programme. Once again, the sound of a male voice speaking in Farsi blared through the speaker, accompanied by Persian writing running over the screen until a high plain somewhere in Afghanistan appeared.

They had relied on the truth of the video, had trusted that Mossad's investigations had been accomplished thoroughly and that the result was precise and truthful. Plainly, they had wanted to believe that what they had seen was real.

Now, Athos thought they all must have missed something. He couldn't put a finger on it, but the feeling that Grimaud was the man behind the assault on Tréville's life today was there; the notion grew that they had started with a false assumption, namely Grimaud being dead. Could they really have fallen for Grimaud's trap just like that with Tréville paying the price for it now? When the close-up of Grimaud's face filled the screen, he hit the pause key.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan entered the Hôpital Saint-Antoine through a side entrance. Aramis knew his way around and where to ask to get information, and two minutes later they made their way to the waiting area on the second floor. Every police officer in Greater Paris not currently hunting the attackers or engaged elsewhere had gathered in the waiting area outside the surgical ward. Through the bustle they could make out Retancourt who was taller than the rest by almost a head. Porthos tried to get her attention and was successful; she made her way over. 

“How is he?” Aramis asked, eyeing the big group of police officers who looked the Musketeers over disdainfully.

“He is undergoing surgery at the moment, but he might have a chance.” With a quick glance over her shoulder she said, “Let's go downstairs. At least half of the officers gathered here dislike you, and most of them think it's your fault that the commissioner has ended up here now.” Without waiting for a reply, she brushed past them and left the surgical ward.

With a last glance at the crowd of police officers, the Musketeers followed Tréville's deputy _capitaine_.

“It seems it's not as bad as it first looked,” Retancourt said, taking a deep drag. She had suggested going outside where she could smoke while bringing the Musketeers up to date. Slowly exhaling, she continued, “Oh, it's pretty bad, don't get me wrong, but he might survive. That's what one of the nurses said a few minutes ago. Danglard was the first on the scene, he had been on his way to pick the commissioner up and saw him go down. He made sure that the ambulance arrived less than five minutes later and gave first aid until they got there. There must've been a lot of blood because the chief has numerous bullet wounds on his arms and shoulders, and apparently a neck artery was hit, but it seems there's no major damage to his heart and lungs. It turned out he was wearing a Kevlar vest. That may have saved his life.” She paused, taking a couple of drags from her cigarette. “I don't know what made him wear the vest today, because he hardly ever does, even if he's taking part in an operation, but I'm grateful he did.”

“Where did he get shot? We had an appointment with him and thought he would already be waiting for us at the commissioner's office,” Porthos said.

“He had been to a meeting at the palace of justice. God only knows why he thought it necessary to go there in full panoply. Maybe he had already prepared himself for the meeting with you,” she added with a sideways glance, smirking.

“Do you have a trace? Any hints who's behind the attack?” asked Aramis, ignoring the last remark.

“Not really,” Retancourt said, serious again. “Danglard saw the car and has a vague description of two men. We currently have a lot of colleagues both on and off duty out there searching for them, but RAID has taken over, two units were put in charge for it.”

“Any inkling if this was politically motivated or a personal act of revenge? Was it a terror attack or does it have something to do with the current cases he's working on or was he just collateral damage?”

Retancourt stared at Porthos, sighing deeply. “Not the slightest idea. We don't have much information yet. The only thing we know for sure is that our chief superintendent was shot in cold blood and is fighting for his life up there right now. And that for reasons unbeknownst to us he seemed to have expected something like this to happen, it's the only explanation I can see for why he wore the vest. And now I’d better get back to see if there is any news.”

“Thank you for speaking to us,” Aramis said. “He means a lot to us.”

“I know we’re not entitled to police information, but would you let us know if you have any news about the attackers?” Porthos added.

Retancourt nodded. “I have no quarrel with you and I know he has a high opinion of you all.”

“And we of him,” muttered d'Artagnan.

“Let me give you a piece of advice for the future,” Retancourt said, taking a last drag from her cigarette before she dropped the butt and ground it under her heel. “Stop calling him captain. He's in the rank of a _commissaire divisionnaire de police_ and a lot of people are bothered by the fact that you don't respect this and call him captain. I know he doesn't mind, he even acts as if it’s some kind of deference on your part, but a lot of people do mind. Call him detective chief superintendent or commissioner if you like but show some respect for his position.” She looked at each of them, and it was not in an unfriendly way. She was certainly one of the very few people in the prefecture who did not dislike them. “I'll see you upstairs.” She turned and walked back into the hospital, making a beeline for the lifts.

The three looked at each other, each with a troubled expression on his face.

“Who do you think’s behind the attack? A terrorist group? Or was it a contract kill for someone Tréville once arrested and charged?”

Porthos and Aramis eyed d'Artagnan. It was obvious from the look on his face that he was thinking about a third possibility he seemed reluctant to voice.

“Or it was someone who has a score to settle with Tréville. Maybe someone from our past,” Aramis said gravely.

“We don’t have enough information right now to exclude one or the other possibility, but I have a feeling that this has not necessarily something to do with Tréville's job as commissioner or chief superintendent or whatever his title is. What if Gaston is behind the attack?” Porthos asked.

“What reason would Gaston have? No, I don't think it's him, but maybe someone who worked for Grimaud. Just because he's dead doesn't mean that some helpers from his network aren’t still after us. The police never confirmed they'd caught everyone,” Aramis replied.

D'Artagnan's expression changed as a sudden flash of inspiration made him look up in surprise. “Marchaux! He could be the one behind it, he hated Tréville back in the day, and I don't think his attitude has changed, not now that he's incarcerated in Spain, waiting to be extradited. He has connections to the police here, it wouldn't have been hard for him to get information about Tréville's daily routine, his appointments.”

“My God, you're right, pup,” Porthos growled, furrowing his brow in anger. “I bet he's in contact with Feron and Feron's the one who orchestrated the assault from outside the prison. They both clashed with Tréville all the time. You could see the hatred in their eyes whenever they had to deal with Tréville.”

“Should we tell Retancourt about it? It would be a trace,” Aramis said.

“No, you heard her, RAID has taken over, I doubt they would listen to us, or her,” Porthos replied.

“Are you suggesting we should do this on our own?” d'Artagnan asked.

“I can't see a reason why not. Marcheaux and Feron are our concern anyway. We should concentrate on those two.”

“Porthos is right, though I don't know where we should begin. As you know, I've just returned from Spain, and I couldn't get any information out of Marcheaux about Feron’s whereabouts or if he's in contact with Marcheaux.” Aramis rubbed his brow with the back of his hand. “To think that I spoke with him while he had already made plans to take vengeance on Tréville… The way he smirked at me all the time makes sense now.”

“You couldn't have known,” Porthos said, grabbing Aramis shoulder and squeezing it encouragingly. “Let's go upstairs and see if there is any news about Tréville.”

When they entered the surgical ward again, the crowd had dwindled. There was still quite a few police officers waiting for Tréville to be wheeled out of the operating theatre, but most of them had left, probably to help with the investigation or support colleagues on duty. The friends sat down at the furthest end of the aisle, far enough away from the officers that none of them would feel disturbed by their presence.

After a few minutes silence, d'Artagnan said, “Shouldn't we tell the others? Constance and Anne and, I don't know, maybe Richelieu?”

“Yeah, you should do that,” Aramis answered absent-mindedly. Rising, he added, “There's a chapel on the first floor, I'll be there for a little while if you don't mind.”

“No worries, we'll let you know when there're any developments. Take your time,” Porthos replied.

Watching Aramis make his way to the lift, d'Artagnan asked, “And what, for crying out loud, is keeping Athos? What could be more important than Tréville right now?”

“I don't know, but I'm sure it's important. He'll come as soon as he can,” Porthos said. “If you call Constance, can you tell Anne as well? I'm not sure if Aramis will remember.”

“I can do that, but I won't call Richelieu or Louis. Athos can tell them if he wants.” D'Artagnan fished his mobile out of his pocket and got up, walking away a few paces to make his calls.

Porthos closed his eyes, letting his head sink back on the wall. He wished he wasn’t condemned to inactivity at the moment. He was not one to sit idle while the world was falling apart around them.

Outside, it was getting dark, dusk setting in even earlier than usual because it had been a grey and sun-less day. Porthos didn't notice it, though, he listened to the sound and noises around him. He could hear d'Artagnan talking to Constance, and the murmur further down the corridor where the officers waited for news. He felt someone sit down on the seat beside him and wondered if Aramis was back.

“Any news?” Athos asked.

“Not yet,” Porthos replied, opening his eyes. “But we have a suspicion about who's behind the attack.”

“So do I. Where's Aramis?”

“Praying. Retancourt spoke with us, she said Tréville might have a chance, but he's still in surgery.”

D'Artagnan ended his call and came over. “What kept you?”

“Research,” Athos answered tersely, turning to Porthos again. “So he's still alive?”

“We haven't been told otherwise. Like I said, he's still in surgery, but it turned out he was wearing a Kevlar vest which may have saved his life. His condition's still critical, but he seems to have a chance.”

Athos sighed deeply. “Thank God, that's good news for now.” Turning back to d'Artagnan, he asked, “Did you tell Constance?”

“Yes, I thought we should let the others know. Constance is calling Anne now, I don't think Aramis has called her yet.”

“No, I don't think so either. They haven't talked much lately,” Athos muttered.

“Can you call Richelieu or Louis? Or should we tell them at all?” D'Artagnan asked.

“We can tell them later. What was your theory about who might be behind the attack? What are the police saying?”

“They don't have a clue, could be everyone and his dog, from terrorists to anyone who's carrying a grudge against Tréville or the Parisian police as whole. RAID has taken over, obviously, and they don't share much information. Every officer who's not otherwise engaged is out there, though. We think this is Marcheaux's doing, with the help of Feron. Both clashed more than once with Tréville, and Marcheaux especially hates Tréville enough that he'd want to see him dead. Somehow, he must have got in contact with Feron who organised the attack. Aramis thinks that's also the reason why Marcheaux smirked all the time when he was in Barcelona to talk to him. Marcheaux already knew.”

“That sounds logical and we should follow that line. However, I think someone else is behind the attack.” Athos looked from Porthos to d'Artagnan. “I think it was Grimaud.”

“What?” D'Artagnan sounded surprised. “You think he had this all planned before he died? That someone is still carrying out his orders, even though he's dead?”

“No,” Athos replied. “I think Grimaud is still alive and is looking for revenge.”

Porthos and d'Artagnan glanced at each other, not sure what they should think of Athos' statement.

“Grimaud is dead, you remember? We saw him die,” Porthos said slowly. “Why do you think he's still alive?”

“It's just a feeling. I re-watched the video.”

“The video Tréville received from his friend at Mossad and which you duly destroyed after we watched it?”

Athos arched a brow, staring at the young man. “The very same. There's something odd about the tape, but I can't put a finger on it. Or couldn't, it’s nagged at my mind ever since we first saw it. Remember when the picture froze for half a second? I always wondered why.” He watched his brothers closely to gauge their reaction. “I think the video has been manipulated, even if both Mossad and our police's IT specialists say it's genuine. I think that before the men were beheaded, they switched Grimaud with somebody else. I just can't find proof of it.”

D'Artagnan sighed. “Maybe it's time that I took a look at the whole video. See what I can find out.”

“I'd be grateful,” Athos said with a nod. “Something in the far background caught my eye, though I can't say what it was. Maybe you have ways and means to zoom in without everything getting blurry.”

D'Artagnan nodded. He was sure if there was something, he would find it.

“I need to talk to Aramis.” Athos stood up. “Where can I find him?”

“Aramis says there's a chapel on the first floor, that's where you might find him.”

Athos looked down at his friends. “You two are aware of that sitting here and waiting won’t help Tréville in the slightest, right?” He paused a moment before adding, “But I'm sure he would be deeply touched if he knew.” He smiled fondly at them. “I'll be back.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When Athos entered the chapel, the quiet immediately enfolded him, keeping the hospital's hustle and bustle outside. The chapel was bathed in warm light and a few rows of chairs led to a head-high cross and two statues, one of with was a statue of the Virgin Mary, the other showing Saint Denis, the patron saint of France and Paris, if Athos wasn't mistaken. Aramis sat with bowed head and folded hands in the first row, near the Virgin Mary. Athos walked over to Aramis and slowly took a seat beside him. 

Aramis startled and looked up.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you,” Athos said in a low voice.

“You didn’t, I was only dwelling on thoughts.”

“Good, I need to talk to you. You must speak to Anne. Sort this out. I'm not willing to stand by and watch any longer.” He put his hand on Aramis' arm to stop him from saying anything. “I mean it. Do you really think I wouldn't know that you’ve stayed at Porthos' place for the last three days?”

Aramis stared at Athos with a frown. “Who says so?”

“Not Porthos. I'm not dumb, though, I know you two better than anyone and I own an investigation firm, should this fact have slipped your mind.” Athos paused briefly before continuing, more insistently, “You need to get over it. I understand you, I wasn't thrilled either to hear about the service my ex-wife offered the Queen and what it ensued and how well they worked together. But it can't be helped. What's in the past should stay in the past. You can't change it, but you can accept it and get over it. She had no choice, and this wasn't your fault. I know it weighs on you that you were not there for them any more. That you think it's your fault she had to turn to Milady for help. That's nonsense, and if you think about it you'll see it. Anne had been raised to rule and to make far-reaching decisions, she has always been much stronger than Louis ever was.” Athos' voice softened to almost a whisper. “For God's sake, Aramis, I committed treason to protect you and Anne, I won't watch your relationship and happiness go out of the window now for nothing.”

“Athos,” Aramis interrupted the stream of words.

“No, I'm not done yet. You must stop blaming yourself for everything that goes wrong around you. You're not responsible for decisions other people make, or fate, if you will. And you must stop blaming Anne for having led a life without you at her side. You can't begrudge her the memories she has of your son. It was neither her choice nor yours, that's how life goes. Sort this out before you ruin everything, I'm not sure how long Anne is willing to be lenient with you. And, last not least, you'd be surprised to hear of the relationship Milady and Anne forged back then. That's also something you should become reconciled to, and sooner rather than later. When you were in Spain, I spent an enlightening evening with Anne and my ex-wife. You won't believe it, but it was damn pleasant.” He drew a deep breath. “And now I'm done.”

Aramis remained silent for a while. “If you'd let me speak earlier I would have told you that what you've said in so many, lengthy words is pretty much the same as my conversation with God just showed.” He paused for a second. “Well, that and Porthos' lecture last night. Anyway, I know I’ve behaved like an idiot. A caring and worried idiot, mind you, but I see now that we have no influence on the paths God has laid out for us. We can only try to live up to them. Make the best of it. Decide what we want do with the time that is given to us. Life is too short to get worked up over things we can't change.”

Athos rose. “I don't know what your God revealed to you, or what it was Porthos threatened you with, but somehow I doubt your insight into the big picture will last long. You've always been too kind-hearted and compassionate for this world,” he muttered. “Come, we should go back upstairs and see if Tréville is out of the operating theatre. I'll fill you in on our way up about what kept me at the office. I'm sure Grimaud is behind the attack.”

Aramis looked at Athos in surprise, rising, too. “What makes you think so?” He followed the older man outside and together they made their way upstairs, Athos explaining Aramis everything he had told the others earlier.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

A few minutes after six o'clock the murmur at the far end of the corridor reached a crescendo and the Musketeers got up to see what had happened. 

“Do you think he's out of the theatre or did they just receive information about the attackers?” Porthos asked.

“I don't know, but I'm going to find out,” Athos replied, taking a few steps towards where the officers had gathered around someone. Brujon peeled himself from the crowd and walked towards them. By the look of him, it was at least good news they seemed to have received.

“Good evening,” Brujon greeted. “I thought you'd like to know that the detective chief superintendent is out of theatre now, the operation went well and the doctors are cautiously confident that he’ll survive.” The young man beamed at Athos.

“Thank you, Brujon, that are really good news.”

The others had joined Athos and Brujon and a collective wave of relief ran through everyone.

“He's still in critical condition and they say he has to survive the night to be out of danger, but I'm confident that he will live.”

“Do you have new information about the attackers?” asked Porthos.

“No, only that they are still on the run.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Aramis unlocked the door and before it was even halfway open Henri came running towards him hooting with joy. “ _Papa, papa,_ ” he screamed before flinging himself into Aramis' arms. 

He scooped up the little boy. “Why are you not in bed yet? It's too late for little boys,” he said jestingly, giving Henri a smack on the nose.

Anne appeared in the kitchen door, a smile forming on her face. “Good evening,” she said.

Aramis gave Henri another kiss before lowering the child to the floor. “I'm so sorry, my love,” he whispered to Anne. “Can you forgive me?”

“You're such a fool sometimes,” Anne replied, putting up a hand to cup Aramis' cheek. “But you're my fool, and there's nothing that needs to be forgiven. I love you.”

“I know,” Aramis breathed. “Forgive me.” He pulled Anne close. When his lips touched hers, he couldn't remember what had made him treat her the way he had over the past few days. He opened his lips and let his tongue dart forward. He played with her tongue, exploring every corner of her mouth as if he hadn't done so a thousand times before. Pressing harder against her smaller body, he lowered his hands, running them up and down over her back until he cupped her buttocks, pulling her even closer to him. 

Anne sighed into his mouth and the sound aroused him even more. But he was aware of Henri standing next to him, tugging at his coat, and with a sting of remorse he wished for just a second that Henri was somewhere else. With a last forceful thrust of his tongue he elicited another moan of pleasure from her. Quickly biting at Anne's lips, he finally released her mouth and parted from her. His breath had quickened considerably and when he looked into her eyes he could see the same desire there that he felt raging through him.

“Henri was just on his way to bed,” Anne said, holding Aramis' gaze. “I promised to read him a bedtime story, but now that _papa_ is here, maybe he can do it.”

Aramis heard the words, but her eyes conveyed something else entirely. That, and her rosy-tinted cheeks, aroused him even more.

“ _Papa, papa,_ ” Henri chanted, hopping up and down. “Yes, yes.”

“Of course, my little one,” he rasped, bending down to Henri. “Find what you want me to read to you, I'll be with you in a second.”

Henri dashed away.

Aramis planted a kiss on Anne's half-open mouth, resisting his urge for more deep kisses. “I'll be right back.” He knew Anne was anticipating the promise of a passionate night and the blush on her cheeks deepened. When she bit her lower lip, he almost gave in to his desire to bed her on the spot. “I'll be right back.” He turned to follow Henri when suddenly a thought crossed his mind. He looked back. “Did you hear what happened to Tréville?” He felt ashamed that for a moment he’d forgotten that their captain was still hovering between life and death.

“Yes,” Anne replied. “Constance told me, and Charlène called as well. Constance called again five minutes ago to tell me how the surgery went.” She made no mention of the fact that Aramis not once rung her himself, but that was secondary now.

Aramis nodded, and with a last glance he finally made his way to Henri's room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Brujon called ten minutes ago. Tréville survived the night well and his condition is stable. If there's no major change within the next six hours, the doctors will be confident that he's over the worst."

“Do we have news about Tréville?” Athos asked, stepping into the office.

Porthos and Aramis, both standing at the reception counter with cups of coffee, broke off their chat with Charlène and turned to the newcomer.

“Brujon called ten minutes ago. Tréville survived the night well and his condition is stable. If there's no major change within the next six hours, the doctors will be confident that he's over the worst,” Porthos replied.

“That’s a relief,” Athos said with a sigh, joining the others at the counter. “Is d'Artagnan not in yet?”

Porthos craned his neck, looking to the young Gascon's office. “A minute ago he was just...” He trailed off seeing d'Artagnan's head resurface from beneath his desk. “Ah, there he is.”

“I'll be with you in a minute,” the young man called, putting some cables onto the desk.

“I'll just grab a coffee, then we can go through the day's schedule. Shall we go into the meeting room or my office?” Athos asked.

“Your office,” Aramis said promptly, walking past Athos without further comment. He entered Athos' office and plonked himself down on the couch.

Athos arched a brow and glanced at Porthos, then he went to the kitchen to get a coffee.

Porthos took a seat beside Aramis. Looking the other man up and down, he remarked, “You look like you didn't get much sleep last night.”

Letting his head drop back on the backrest, Aramis breathed out noisily. “You’re right, I didn't.”

“I bet you didn't,” Athos smirked, entering the office. He rounded the desk and sat down, putting his mug on the table.

Porthos looked at the two men, wondering what he had missed in the short conversation.

Aramis opened his eyes again and smiled at Athos. “I didn't get much sleep, all right, but I got something better.” His smile turned into a wolfish grin. “Repeatedly.”

Athos rolled his eyes. “I don't need a blow-by-blow report, thank you very much. But I'm happy to see that you obviously managed to mend fences.”

“Shall I leave you two alone?” Porthos asked, still not sure what the others were talking about but somehow feeling excluded.

Aramis patted Porthos' thigh calmingly, though a sudden yawn prevented him from answering the question.

D'Artagnan entered the office and closed the door. “If you give me the USB stick I can start on it straight away,” he said. Looking from Athos' stoic face to Porthos' pouting, he added, “Sorry, did I interrupt anything?”

“No,” Aramis answered, finally done with his extensive yawning. “I was merely telling the gentlemen here, though not in so many words, that I reconciled with Anne last night and that my lack of sleep is the result of it, hence the black coffee and this cosy spot on Athos' couch. One is not getting any younger and I'm still convalescent. Another cup of coffee and I'm as good as new, though.” He beamed at the young man.

“Oh,” d'Artagnan said unperturbed. “So you had make-up sex. Good for you!” He slumped down on the chair in front of Athos' desk, putting two cables on top of a stack of paper. “I need to exchange these later for a faster internet connection.”

“Pardon me?” Aramis sputtered. “This boy has no respect for his elders!”

Porthos laughed heartily. “Thank you, pup, I was beginning to feel like the odd one out.”

Athos glanced at the young Gascon with an expression that said 'well done'. “Now that's settled, let's start. Here's the USB stick with Grimaud.” He pushed the flash drive towards d'Artagnan. “See if you find anything that gives us an indication that the video was manipulated, preferably proof that the man who was killed there was not Grimaud. I hope we'll soon get more positive news about Tréville and be able to see him. Unfortunately, I don't know how we’ll get any news on Marcheaux and Feron, now that Tréville is not there for us. Do we have anyone at the prefecture who is willing to speak to us and keep us up to date?”

“Retancourt is kind of well-disposed towards us, maybe we can ask her. She was very forthcoming yesterday,” said Aramis.

“No, not Retancourt. She may not dislike us like the rest of them, but I think she'll cover for Tréville while he's indisposed and she won't risk being dissed by her colleagues for passing on information to the enemy,” Athos replied. “And by enemy I mean us.”

“What about Brujon?” d'Artagnan said. “He likes us and Tréville has a high opinion of him. He’s already kept us posted yesterday and today.”

“You're right. Even if Brujon has no clue about the connections he had with us once he is the only one who has always been willing to help us. And he knows Tréville is working with us,” Aramis said.

“He might not know everything that's going on in the commissioner's office, but it's our best option. I'll give him a call later.” Athos took a sip from his mug. “I wonder what it was Tréville wanted to talk about. It seemed urgent. Do you think there's a chance someone at the commissioner's office can tell us more?”

“I don't think so. Retancourt looked surprised when we told her Tréville was due for a meeting with us yesterday, even though she didn't let it show. He won't have told anyone at the office about the meeting or the reason for it.” Aramis scratched the back of his head. “But we can ask Brujon if he's heard something. Maybe the captain had news about Marcheaux' transfer?”

“I really hope we'll be allowed to talk to Tréville today or tomorrow. Until then I suggest we keep going on with our research. D'Artagnan, drop Maria de' Medici for now and concentrate on the video and Grimaud. Aramis, I know you've done nothing else for the last three days but keep searching for Feron and his connection to Marcheaux. You, too, Porthos. I really can't believe the Spanish police have lost his track and can’t find him again. I'm sure one of them is behind the attack on Tréville, either Feron or Grimaud. Until we get informed to the contrary, these two are our main suspects. I'll occupy myself with the whereabouts of Buckingham and our chances to get in contact with Tréville's friend Moshe at Mossad.”

“Do you think it's wise to draw attention to the fact that Tréville has such contacts to the Israeli intelligence?” Porthos asked.

Athos squinted at Porthos. “No?” he replied, stretching the syllable. “Is there a legal reason why I should refrain from trying or is it something else?” Sometimes, Athos simply forgot that Porthos had studied law and had a more distinct intuition for the legal rights or wrongs of things than any of them.

“We don't know anything about the relationship between Tréville and his friend, whether it's official or not. But I do know that secret service agents usually aren't allowed to share information with a police officer from the _police nationale_ , no matter his rank. Making inquiries would land Tréville in difficulties which might have legal repercussions for him, not to mention his friend.”

“Right. Then we'll have to wait until the captain is able to contact his friend himself,” Athos said with no small amount of regret in his voice. “If there are no other pressing questions I'll try to reach Brujon now. Or I'll rather ask Charlène to call him and put him through to me. They don't necessarily need to know that we're trying to get in contact with Brujon.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Just before two o'clock Brujon called Athos to let him know that Tréville had regained consciousness for a short time and that the doctors were cautiously optimistic that he was over the worst and would live. Asked if it was possible to visit him, Brujon had said no and informed them that currently no visitors were allowed and when they were, then it would only be close relatives permitted to see him. Athos knew he and his friends would be at the bottom of the vistors’ list if the police had any say in it and he also knew they would never get by the police officer who was keeping watch outside the ICU. Sighing at the unfairness, he got up to let the others know. 

An hour later, d'Artagnan burst into Athos' office. “You were right! I have a software programme that enables me to enlarge photos and videos with even poor picture quality and get good results. I've found what you thought you had seen in the background! My God, you were right!”

Athos looked up from his computer screen. “Really? You're a genius, d'Artagnan! Show me!”

D'Artagnan took a seat opposite Athos, spreading print-outs from the video tape.

“Aramis! Porthos!” Athos shouted. “My office. Now!” He wasn’t even slightly bothered by the fact that Charlène had told him a thousand times before to use the phone if they wanted to talk to each other instead of simply shouting across the reception area.

It worked, though, and both Aramis and Porthos entered the office half a minute later.

“The youngster has news,” Athos said, motioning to d'Artagnan to continue.

“At the back you can see this mountain range, right? What you can't see clearly or only just, are the shadows moving on the top of the range. See?” He pointed at the mountains on the print-outs. “You can see clouds move from right to left, which is from north-east to south-west on this picture here. That is, you can't see the clouds but the shadows they cast. They are moving pretty slowly, which is normal for this time of the year on high plains in Afghanistan; high clouds and hardly any wind. And then there's another shadow moving across the mountains, you can't see it without zooming in. It's the shadow of a plane. Nothing big, maybe a two-seater.” He looked at Athos. “You would know better what kind of small aircraft the military or the rebels use in Afghanistan. Anyway, it's there, hardly visible to the naked eye but not if you blow up the picture.” He showed them another set of pictures, and now all of them could see shadows of clouds and something that looked like a slanting cross standing out against the grey mountain side.

“Now look, this picture is from when the video froze for half a second, and this one is ten milliseconds after it played again.” D'Artagnan looked up to see his friends' reactions.

“It's gone,” Porthos said with a look of astonishment. “The plane's shadow is gone.”

“And the clouds' shadows have other positions. And this one's gone as well.” Aramis pointed to a spot on the left picture.

“Right. Within allegedly less than one second the clouds hop from one position to another, and one shadow, namely the plane, disappears completely.” D'Artagnan leaned back in the chair. “There are three possibilities. First, the wind freshened, fast and hard, which caused the clouds to pick up speed and caused the plane to come down, hence we don't see its shadow any longer. Second, the wind freshened, fast and hard, and I'm talking here about picking up speed from six or eight knots to around fifty knots in one second, and the plane altered its course and made a sharp, angle of 100 degrees turn to the right, that way its shadow would not fall to the side of the mountain for approximately three seconds because of its angle to the sun. This would, however, also result in a crash, because no plane can make such a manoeuvre in such a short time. Which leaves option three: There must be two to three minutes missing on the video, which allowed the clouds to move on and the plane to fly further east and disappear to the left.” Expectantly, he looked at the others.

Aramis nodded approvingly. “Well done.”

Porthos patted d'Artagnan's shoulder. “I don't know how you do this, but you're a real genius, pup.”

“This is the proof we were looking for that the video was manipulated,” Athos said earnestly.

“You detected it,” d'Artagnan said, turning to Athos. “You realised something was off in the background, though you didn't know exactly what it was. It was the shadows. But there's something else.” He pulled two photos out of the stack he had brought. “This is Grimaud, he has just been blindfolded with the sack, you can still see the hand of the one who pulled it on.” D'Artagnan pointed to the man in the middle, the man they all had identified as Lucien Grimaud. Now, d'Artagnan pointed to the man in the middle on the other photo, an identical copy of the first. “This is not Grimaud.”

“And what makes you say so? There's absolutely no difference!” Porthos bent down to take a closer look. “Only the hand has disappeared.

“This man here is shorter than Grimaud.”

Aramis bent down as well and Athos tried to get a closer look at the photos from across the table.

“You're wrong,” Aramis said. “This man is exactly the same size as the man on this photo.” He pointed to the one with the genuine Grimaud. “Look, the head and the shoulders are in exact the same height as before.”

D'Artagnan grinned. “You are right, there's no difference with regard to the shoulders or the head. Whoever did this was damn clever. However, the man in the second photo has a slightly longer torso, but shorter legs, which makes him, in the end, a bit smaller. His upper legs compensate the height difference here because he's kneeling, but his lower legs won't. This is another man, dressed in Grimaud's clothes or in identical clothes.”

The elder Musketeers shook their heads in astonishment.

“I can't believe you outshone Mossad agents and I won’t even mention our own IT specialists,” Athos said. “Very well done. I'm really sorry you had to go through the footage,” he added honestly.

Embarrassed, d'Artagnan fidgeted on his chair. “It's okay. I nearly threw up, but I guess there was no other way to find out about Grimaud, since none of you are even capable of using a mouse properly.” He paused a second, continuing in a softer voice. “No matter how many people I killed in my time as Musketeer, seeing people getting beheaded only because they don't share the same religion or simply for propaganda purposes is hard.” Avoiding Athos' gaze, he started gathering his papers.

Aramis squeezed the Gascon's shoulder. “You never once took a life lightly, and you never got indifferent towards another's life. Keep this up.”

Athos looked from one to the other. “I really wished we could talk to Tréville. We need to get information about pretty much everyone who left Afghanistan between the time Grimaud was brought there and the day the captain was shot. I've no idea how we can get this information without the help of intelligence services. Sadly, I don't think any of them is willing to share such information with us.”

“We can't be sure if Grimaud is really behind the attack, but no matter if he is or is not, we need to find him.” For a moment, Aramis closed his eyes in sheer desperation, running his hand over his face. “I can't believe he's still walking the earth. His anger will know no limits.” He opened his eyes, and suddenly he looked very tired. “I thought we had got rid of him. Do we really have to start all over again with him?”

Porthos threw his arm around Aramis' shoulder, squeezing it hard. “There's no proof yet whether he escaped from the terrorists who had him captured and brought to Afghanistan or that he's back in France. And if he is, we'll defeat him once and for all.”

“Porthos is right. While I think that he's the driving force behind the attack, we can't know for sure. Currently, we have an advantage over him, though. He or the terrorist cell wanted to make everyone believe Grimaud is dead. We now know he isn't, but he doesn't know that. That's advantageous for us,” Athos said.

“So, Grimaud is our new priority now, right?” D'Artagnan asked. “What about Buckingham, do we stay on the task or put it aside for now?”

“I'd say our primary target is Grimaud. Everything and everyone else we neglect for the time being. We've spent enough time on Buckingham or Feron without finding a trace anyway,” Athos replied.

“Do you think it makes sense to speak with Retancourt about Grimaud? She was involved in the case, it might be of interest for the police as well,” Aramis suggested.

“And how should we explain the source of our information without giving Tréville away?” Athos was undecided.

“Well, we can say we've got the information from one of our informants, whose name or source we can't disclose, naturally.” Porthos shrugged. “It's not our problem if they believe it or not, but maybe they can get us access to internal investigation results. And maybe it would open the chance to get in contact with intelligence.”

“Okay, we can at least try it. You two visit Retancourt, and on this occasion ask how Tréville is, if we can see him any time soon and how the police are proceeding with catching the attackers. Oh, and also ask her if she knows when Marcheaux will eventually be extradited to Paris,” Athos delegated.

“Anything else?” Porthos asked sarcastically.

Athos raised an eyebrow.

“We don't know if Retancourt is even willing to see us or listen to us, but feel free to add a couple more things to the list,” Aramis remarked wryly.

“Then turn on your charm. I'm sure even Retancourt won't be able to resist you,” Athos deadpanned and turned to his computer screen. They were dismissed.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It turned out Retancourt had no time to see them, she was on a special operation on the outskirts of Paris that would last well into the night. The only silver lining was a call from Brujon who promised he would try to speak with the doctors the next day about a visit to Tréville. 

Before Athos left the office, he made a quick mental inventory of the whereabouts of everyone. He felt reassured when he realised that no one was alone tonight. Even Charlène would spend the evening in company, that much he had overheard, though he was sure she was the only one in their vicinity who would not be on Grimaud's target list. So far, he was the only one who would walk home alone, but his apartment was just around the corner and he vaguely remembered that Ninon had asked him this morning if he was home tonight. He had no idea what she wanted but it would feel good to have company and think about something else than Grimaud for a short while. The only thing he dreaded was possibly having to listen to complaints about Ninon's ex-boyfriend again.

He switched off the light, locked the door and made his way home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah, and that's not all,” d'Artagnan said, sounding a bit desperate. “It's even worse. Look at that.” He handed out pictures. “I found them this morning."

Athos was started awake by the ringing of a phone and groped for his mobile, still half-asleep. When he was finally able to read the caller's name on the display, he checked the time before taking the call. “I hope this is important, do you have any idea what time it is?” he grumbled instead of responding with a greeting.

“It's important,” d'Artagnan replied. “And yes, I know what time it is. Gaston left Switzerland and entered France an hour ago.”

That silenced Athos, who had already had a snide remark on the tip of his tongue. Suddenly, he was wide awake. “What did you say? He's in France? Is he heading to Paris?”

“I can't say yet, he crossed the border at Bardonnex, which means he's not travelling by train. He's currently near Chalon-sur-Saône, most likely heading for Beaune or Dijon. From there, he could still go anywhere: Montpellier, Toulouse, Bordeaux. But my guess is that he's heading for Paris.”

_“Merde!”_

“I rest my case.”

“Do you ever actually sleep? You were not at the office when I left last night, where are you now?” Athos asked with a whiff of concern in his voice.

“I'm home, in bed as a matter of fact. I installed a warning system on my computer which alerted me as soon as Gaston crossed the border into France. More precisely, it went off as soon as his mobile left a radius of five kilometres around his hotel, because that's the minimum distance to the French border in the north-west and to the south-east. A bit less actually if you count the airport, but he can't cross the border there by foot or car, only by plane. But that's probably more information than you wanted to hear....” D'Artagnan trailed off.

“Exactly. Give me...” Athos fell silent, checking his watch again. “Give me an hour. No, wait! Let's say we meet at eight in the office. If Gaston is near Dijon, he'll need at least four hours before he reaches Paris, and with the current weather conditions even more. If we meet at eight we still have enough time to talk things through.”

“Okay, thanks. Constance will appreciate it if we can go back to sleep for an hour or so. See you later.”

“Wait!” Athos shouted, his finger hovering over the button to end the call. “Don't call Aramis or Porthos before seven. There's no need to rob them of their sleep, too.”

“Oookay,” d'Artagnan drawled and rang off.

Athos had the feeling the boy might have already called the others, given how his reply had sounded. He shrugged and threw the mobile on the bedside table, thinking that at least _this_ wasn't his problem.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When Athos entered the office, d'Artagnan was sitting hunched over his keyboard, typing frantically. He looked up and made a gesture with his hand which Athos interpreted as meaning that he would need a couple more minutes before he was able to join them. The young man's pale face looked tense. 

Porthos, also sitting in front of his computer, got up and walked over when he saw Athos come in. “D'Artagnan called me to say that Gaston is back in France. What a shit.”

“Yes, he couldn't have mistimed his return any better,” Athos growled. “Do you know where Aramis is?”

“He's already on his way. Henri is sick and he didn't get much sleep, but he's coming.” Porthos trailed Athos to his office. “Do you want a coffee?”

“No, I already had two before I came here.” 

Porthos shrugged, leaving the office again and walking over to the kitchen to get his third cup of the morning. He tried not standing in the way while Constance was restocking the fridge with beverages, an undertaking not easily accomplished in the small kitchen. “How are things going with your memories?” he asked.

“I'd say good, but the truth is I wish I had some influence on it. There's so much I can't remember, and if I dream at night I'm never certain what is a dream or what was real. Anne constantly tells me stories from our time together, and sometimes I have feelings, like I would remember what happened, but often it's completely unfamiliar to me.”

“You must have patience. And maybe it's good that you don't recall everything. Not everything was good.”

“I know. I had some horrible dreams, and d'Artagnan eventually told me that the dreams were memories, that what I had dreamt was real. That wasn't nice.” Constance played with a thread on her sleeve. “Ah, don't listen to me, you know for yourself how hard life was back then. And most of what I remember is really nice. We had a beautiful boy, I wish you could all have seen him.” Constance smiled at Porthos. “Sometimes I still can't get my head around the fact that I lived a life before this one.”

“Yeah, and it's even harder if you've believed in resurrection all your life,” Porthos said with a chuckle in his voice, pointing with a curt nod of his head towards Aramis who just stepped through the entrance door. “You've no idea how long it took Aramis, being the good Catholic he is, to really reconcile his faith with his reincarnation. I can still hear his lecture on how Christianity knows no reincarnation, but faith in the resurrection of the dead and eternal life,” Porthos added in a low voice. “For the church, resurrection and the idea of reincarnation are mutually exclusive, no matter if you live in the 17th century or nowadays.”

Constance patted Porthos' arm, grinning. “Right. I'll leave you to your business, I need to help auntie with this months' invoices.” She left the kitchen and Porthos followed her to greet Aramis.

“Do you have a cup for me, too?” Aramis asked, longingly eyeing the steaming mug in Porthos' hand.

Porthos looked from Aramis to his cup and back. “Here,” he said, holding it out to Aramis.

“Oh thanks, you are truly a fierce friend! I feel absolutely whacked, Henri cried from midnight to dawn,” he said with a yawn.

“Come, Athos is waiting,” Porthos replied, leading the way to Athos' office.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“So, Gaston is back in France. Hurray,” Athos said without enthusiasm, just as d'Artagnan entered the office in the wake of Aramis. 

“Yeah, and that's not all,” d'Artagnan said, sounding a bit desperate. “It's even worse. Look at that.” He handed out pictures. “I found them this morning."

“That's Gaston,” Porthos said. “Is this in Geneva?”

“Yes, it's in a cafe on the Place du Bourg-de-Four in the Vieille Ville, but look who's with him.”

Everyone looked closer at the pictures.

“My God,” Athos said. “Is this Maria de' Medici with him?”

“The very same,” d'Artagnan replied, finally slumping into a chair. “I couldn't sleep again and browsed a few sites I keep an eye on. This is from a webcam overlooking the Place du Bourg-de-Four, taken yesterday around noon.”

“Do you realise what this means?” Athos asked. “Less than 24 hours after this meeting Gaston left Switzerland, destination highly likely Paris. And maybe _she_ is with him.”

“Yeah,” Porthos growled. “And it also means that he was giving us the runaround! He fooled me when he pretended he didn’t recognise me. He must've known who I was! If he's meeting with his former mother, it can only mean that he knows. That he remembers.” It was hard to say what upset Porthos more; the fact that the _duo infernal_ was on their way to Paris or that he had been duped by Gaston.

“Not necessarily,” Aramis interjected. “Maybe he really didn't recall either you or your name. He was an arrogant brat, I doubt he knew any names of his underlings, probably not even the name of his valet. Did he even look directly at you, Porthos? He won't remember our names or faces from the past. But him teaming up with Maria de' Medici does concern me a lot,” Aramis said.

“Gaston had always been her favourite son. They share the same maliciousness and ruthlessness. If she's supporting his vendetta against Louis, then God help him.” Athos stared at the others. “We need to inform Richelieu and Louis, as well as my ex-wife and Anne. We don't know if the only reason they're coming to Paris is Louis alone.” His gaze swept to d'Artagnan. “What is his current position?”

“He's on the A6 past Avallon. At the rate he's driving he will be in Paris in about two hours, maybe a bit less.”

“I'll ask Louis and Richelieu to come to the office. I want you all to be here.” Athos pointedly looked at Aramis. “Put aside any resentment any of you have towards Louis or Richelieu. This concerns not only Louis, but each of us.” 

“I won't cause trouble, if that's what you mean,” Aramis said. “Just don't expect me to be kind to any of them.”

“We can't hope that Gaston is only coming to see Louis. He was definitely aware who his assassin was, but what we don't know for sure is whether or not he drew any conclusion who was behind it. And if Maria knows that Anne was the one who ordered her assassination, she will not rest until she gets her revenge,” Athos continued, disregarding Aramis' reply. “We need to act together. And please, keep in mind that while Louis is no longer a king, he is a German prince now and places importance on being called Ludwig, not Louis. And while you're at it, try to accent the name properly.”

“ _Ludwig_ or Louis, what difference does it make? He's still a wimp,” Aramis muttered. 

Athos' phone rang which released him of having to reply to Aramis. “D'Autevielle,” he barked into the receiver. “Oh, Brujon, good morning,” he added, friendlier than before. His expression changed during the call and when he rang off, his frown had disappeared. “Some good news, at last. We can see Tréville.” 

“Really? When?” asked Aramis.

“In about two hours, when the medical round is over.”

“How did Brujon manage that?” d'Artagnan asked.

“He didn't,” Athos replied, smirking. “Apparently, Tréville put his foot down and demanded to see us immediately. Danglard’s fuming and Retancourt isn’t happy either and the consultant said something like 'not on my watch', but fact is that we should be there at ten o'clock.”

“It will be good to see him,” Aramis said softly.

“It won't make sense to meet with Louis before we go,” Porthos said. “We should ask them to come by in the afternoon. I don't think Gaston will make a move immediately after his arrival, he'll have to arrange things first. We can use the morning to work out a strategy. With d'Artagnan's tracker we will always know where he is, right?”

“As long as he doesn't switch off the mobile, yes,” d'Artagnan answered. “But we won't know where Maria de' Medici – or Catarina Maria Ottajano, as she calls herself nowadays – is. _If_ she's in that car with Gaston.” Suddenly, d'Artagnan's expression changed, a flash of insight obviously crossing the young man's mind. “I'll try to find a trace of her in Geneva. She must've stayed somewhere, and if I check surveillance cameras and webcams around the Place du Bourg-de-Four I might find a trace where she went to after the meeting or which direction she came from. If I can locate a hotel, I might find out if she has checked out.” D'Artagnan rose. “If we're finished here I'll return to my computer.”

Athos looked at the young man. He was tired, dark shadows telling of too many missed hours of sleep. Nodding, Athos said, “I'll let you know when we leave for the hospital.”

D'Artagnan left and Athos turned to the remaining two. Aramis looked tired as well, and not only because he had had a sleepless night with Henri on his arms. From his own experience Athos knew that like him, Aramis had not yet fully overcome his latest encounter with Grimaud. It seemed, nowadays their bodies needed more time to heal than before. Among the four of them, only Porthos seemed to be brimming with energy.

“If Gaston is in Paris, we need to work out a schedule to protect Louis. I've given him my word that we would do so. At his place, he has one of the safest alarm systems in use and I'll ask him to stay at home as much as possible. Porthos and I can take over his personal protection when he's outside. Maybe Tréville can arrange something with the police, now that Gaston is really here. We'll see.” He turned to Aramis. “You and d'Artagnan can continue with the Grimaud case. We'll reschedule things after we've spoken to Tréville. I'll inform my ex-wife that Gaston and Maria de' Medici are here, she'll be able to look after herself. I assume you'll see to it that Anne takes no unnecessary risks as long as we don't know why the two of them are really here. If you need help, let us know.”

Aramis nodded.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

At half past nine they set out for the hospital. Someone must have announced their visit because they had no problem gaining access to the intensive care unit or passing the police officer who kept watch outside the room where Tréville lay. They had to wait in the corridor until the doctor’s visit was over, then a nurse finally saw to them. 

“Messieurs, this is an intensive care unit with patients in a critical condition. Please refrain from speaking too loudly or disturbing the patients in any way. You must leave mobiles and any electronic devices here, and before you go in you need to disinfect your hands and use shoe covers. Here.” She handed Athos a couple of shoe covers and surgical masks. “If you have a cold, please use the surgical mask or, preferentially, stay outside. The disinfectant dispenser is there.” She pointed to the wall. “Last but not least, I can only allow two of you in. Those are the regulations.”

It was obvious that Athos would go and, after quickly glancing at each other, Porthos declared, nodding towards Aramis, “You two go. The pup and I'll wait outside. Give him our regards.”

Athos acknowledged Porthos' words with a curt nod, handing a pair of shoe covers to Aramis. They prepared themselves and after a couple more minutes of waiting, they were finally ushered through the door to where Tréville lay.

The room held three beds, each of them occupied. Apart from a lot of whirring and beeping from the medical equipment it was very quiet in the room. The nurse showed them the bed where their former captain lay and left them alone. Aramis and Athos took a moment to look at the man before them. Tréville looked fragile and small between the monitors and devices surrounding his bed. A lot of wires were attached to his body and he was stripped to the waist, a thin sheet covering him from the waist downwards. His abdomen and chest were covered with a range of colourful bruises, from dark violet to yellowy-green. While a Kevlar vest prevented bullets from mortally injuring its bearer, it did nothing to soften the force of the bullet or save the skin and soft tissue from being affected. From their own experiences, both Musketeers knew how painful even one single impact was, especially at close range.

Apparently, the nurses had not been stingy with the iodine, for the rest of Tréville's upper body, at least those parts of his chest and arms that were not covered with bandages and plasters, was tinted red. Three tubes left Tréville's body to drain wound secretion, and three more were attached to his arms, liquids from IV bags slowly dripping through the tubes. The deep-set eyes and dark shadows underneath spoke of the fight for survival his body had endured over the last 48 hours.

Aramis felt a lump in his throat, seeing his captain lying there like that. He glanced at Athos.

Athos cleared his throat and stepped up to the bed. Before he could say anything, Tréville opened his eyes and looked at them. A tiny lopsided grin formed around his lips.

“Captain,” said Athos. “It's good to see you.”

Aramis moved closer, too. “How are you?”

“Could be better,” Tréville answered hoarsely. “Grimaud is still alive.” It was obvious that even a few words were exhausting him.

“How do you know?” Athos asked surprised. “That's what we were going to tell you.”

Tréville's eyes widened, apparently he hadn't expected that reply. “Moshe called me. He came into possession of photo material from border controls.” Tréville paused to take a couple of breaths before he continued. “Grimaud passed border controls in Syria and Lebanon last week.”

“Do you know if he's in France?”

Tréville moved his head, signalling he didn't know.

“Is that the reason why you wore a bulletproof vest?” Aramis asked.

“No, I would have told you immediately if I’d thought such precautions necessary. The Kevlar vest was a directive from the _Garde des Sceaux._ Different matter, needn’t concern you.” Tréville gasped for air. “How did you find out?”

“About Grimaud?” Athos asked. “When we heard you had been shot I had the feeling I should check the video again that your friend from Mossad sent you.”

Tréville glowered at Athos.

“I know, sorry. But it turned out it was a good thing I kept it. D'Artagnan found proof that the video is manipulated. The man who was beheaded is not Grimaud. Ergo, Grimaud is still alive and we believe he's behind the attack on you. Either him or Marcheaux.”

“Brujon is keeping us informed about how the hunt for your attackers is going. So far, they have no trace, and nobody has been arrested. It could've been anyone, but somehow we believe that one of our old friends is behind the attack,” said Aramis.

“I agree,” Tréville replied. “I've already put my team on Grimaud's tracks. Speak to Retancourt.”

“We will,” Athos said. “Is there a chance we can get in contact with your friend at Mossad?”

“No! Don't try to contact him.” Tréville briefly closed his eyes, contorting his face.

Aramis eyed the IV bag that held the morphine and wondered if the dose needed to be increased.

“Brujon will tell me when there's a message from Moshe. I'll let you know.”

“There's something else,” Aramis said, but stopped when a nurse approached them.

“Messieurs, you need to go, your time is up.”

“Please, _infirmière_ Agnes, we need just one minute more,” Aramis said with a quick glance at the nurse's name tag, smiling his most charming smile.

The nurse looked from Aramis to Tréville.

“Please,” Tréville pleaded, though his pale, sweat-covered face didn’t help his cause.

“I'll give you one minute, then you must go.” She turned and left.

“Gaston is on his way to Paris, or maybe already here, and he might have Maria de' Medici with him. D'Artagnan found pictures of the two of them, they met in Geneva yesterday. This means that both Gaston _and_ de' Medici must know of the past and, apparently, they're scheming. We'll meet Louis and Richelieu this afternoon to talk about the next steps.”

“Sweet Jesus, save me from this woman,” Tréville moaned, rubbing his brow slowly with his right hand. “Somehow, succumbing to this here is suddenly very alluring.”

“Don't say that,” Aramis said, eyeing Tréville's trembling hand. “You must get well quickly. We need you,” he added in a low voice.

“You must go now!” The nurse urged, materialising beside them.

“Get well, and Porthos and d'Artagnan send their best wishes, too. They're outside,” Athos hurried to say before they were softly but determinedly pushed towards the door

Tréville nodded but he didn't reply, his eyes already closing.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“He received a report from his Mossad friend that Grimaud passed the border to Syria and Lebanon,” Athos reported on his way back. “They don't know whether he is already back in France, but it seems Mossad is also keeping track of Grimaud's movements, so hopefully we'll get more information soon.” 

“Too bad Tréville is confined to a hospital bed at the moment, there's no one else who can get in touch with his friend. We'll have to wait until this Moshe sends new information,” Aramis added.

“What a mess,” Porthos groaned. “And on top of this all we'll have to talk to Louis and Richelieu later. Today can't get any worse.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Thank you for coming,” Athos said for form’s sake, even though no one in the room felt thankful for the appearance of Louis and Richelieu in LaFère's offices. “Take a seat.”

Louis let his eyes roam, taking everyone in.

Richelieu greeted them with a smug smile. “Good afternoon, Messieurs. Madame,” he added with a tiny bow towards Constance.

“I won't call you majesty or anything,” Aramis blurted out, pointing at Louis. “I don't care if you are member of a royal house or not. And none of you can issue any orders. We're here because you need our help, not the other way around. If only one of you is even frowning at me, I'm done with you and this meeting is over.” Scowling at Richelieu, Aramis finally sat down.

Richelieu prepared to speak, but then decided against it and closed his mouth again.

Suddenly, Constance got up. “I'll get some coffee,” she mumbled and hurried out of the room so quickly it seemed she was fleeing the meeting rather than leaving to get some refreshments.

“Well then,” said Athos, looking after Constance with a frown on his face. “We've news, and none of it is pleasant. I’ve already told you what happened to Tréville. We've seen him this morning and the doctors are optimistic that he will recover fully, but it will take time. Unfortunately, Tréville also confirmed that Grimaud is still alive and maybe already back in France. This ups the threat level to your safety significantly even if it's more likely that he's going after us, and not you. I'm not sure if and how deep he’s nursing grudges against you, that's something we need to find out, too. I'm afraid, however, this also means we hardly have the capacity to keep up the personal protection we agreed with you. We're most definitely his number one target and need to keep ourselves outside the line of fire as well. And that's not all. Gaston is currently on his way to Paris, or maybe already here. D'Artagnan tracked him from Switzerland to the outskirts of Paris.” Quickly glancing at the grim faces of Richelieu and Louis, he added with a sigh, “And there's more. Gaston might not come alone...”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_At the same time, somewhere in Madrid, Spain_

“How long shall we continue shadowing the Musketeers?”

“Until you finally deliver results!”

“We followed everyone, even the young one and his girlfriend to Italy. There was no sign of the man you described. Maybe it’s a dead end and they aren't in contact with him.”

“They have information, I'm sure of it. They did nothing to prevent that perfidious attack, they led me like a lamb to the slaughter, and I was foolish enough to trust them.”

“From what you told, I was under the impression they were rather trying to get you to safety, keeping you alive, getting you away from Paris and back to Spain. They probably didn’t see it coming.”

“Maybe, maybe not, but it happened on their watch. I'm sure they found out who was behind it, and it can only be one specific man, I'm convinced of it. He played me false and my return would have blown his cover. I want to find him and the one he hired for the job, and I want revenge.”

“What if it was _your_ king who wanted to see you gone? If he was the one behind it? Ever thought about that?”

Suddenly, a cold breeze seemed to fill the room, the two men staring at each other coldly. Before either of them could speak, someone knocked at the door.

“Come in!”

A man stepped inside, greeting with a curt nod. “You are expected at the Zarzuela palace, His Majesty King Felipe is on his way to join the councillors.”

“Thank you, I'll be with you in a minute.” Waving the young employee away with his hand, he turned to the other man again, waiting for the door to close before he spoke. “How do you plan to proceed further?”

“Tréville was shot. Maybe now is the time to see what information the police have on the Musketeers and Rochefort.”

“You fool, you should've done that already! You said it wouldn't be a problem.”

“It won’t be, trust me, we’ve someone inside. I’ll tell her to take action. Shall we toughen up on our efforts with the Musketeers? Be more drastic? Confront them?”

“I leave it to you how to handle it, but I want results, and I want them soon. Do whatever you need to do, just make sure nothing leads back to me. And for God's sake, don't create a bloodbath when dealing with them, keep it low-key.” The man turned to the door, preparing to leave.

“You mean to say they need to stay alive?”

“I don't care if they live or die or how you get them to speak, do what you deem necessary to finally deliver results. You know who I'm interested in.” The door shut with a soft thud after the man had left the room to join the Spanish King and his councillors; after all, he was one of them. Some would even say he was one of the most trusted advisers to King Felipe VI and his wife, Queen Letizia.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Enough!” Porthos roared, rising to stand like the wrath of God himself.

“That’s the current situation,” Athos said, closing his speech. “Now we need to see where we stand, what we can do and what our priorities are.”

“Well, the priorities are pretty obvious,” Louis replied. “You need to increase my protection, and talk to the police. Once you've described the situation they'll see that this all makes it more than necessary that they finally provide extra bodyguards. I'm literally a sitting duck here.”

“Whoa, wait,” Porthos said. “You’re not the only one who is a prime target in this. I’d even say it’s more likely Gaston and Maria de’ Medici are here more because of Anne and Milady de Winter than for you. If he really wanted, Gaston could have killed you years ago. He might not even know you’re currently here in Paris.”

“ _Oui_ , and the same is the case with the threat from Grimaud, I'm sure he doesn't even remember you,” Aramis spat. “Don’t be so full of yourself, it’s not you who’s in the line of fire. The world no longer revolves solely around you, so put up with it. I doubt _you_ are the one in danger of being killed. And if you were, nobody would shed a tear over you anyway.”

“How dare you!” Louis sputtered as he got up. “Oh, I so regret not having had you hanged when I had the right to do so. I knew it was a mistake.”

“Speaking of mistakes, you can't imagine how dearly I regret every single time I put myself in the line of fire for you!” Aramis got up as well, staring angrily at Louis. “Everything and everyone would have fared so much better without you, including France.”

“Oh, I see, maybe it wasn't the white plague I succumbed to after all?” Louis looked around, closely eyeing the others. “Maybe one of you poisoned me? Cleared the way for the traitor and my adulterous wife for when all of you returned to Paris after the war.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Athos growled, glowering at Louis. “Neither of us would ever have harmed you. We were soldiers, bound to obey, our only duty, first and foremost, was to protect you and the royal family, no matter what possible personal aversions we might have had. We all died for you on the battlefield, don't forget that. Neither of us ever returned to Paris, we outlived you by only three days and we died doing our duty, on the day that marked the end of the war between France and Spain.”

“ _Messieurs,_ ” Richelieu said, placatingly. “Now’s not the time for this. There are more important things, don’t let personal sensitivities cloud your decisions.”

Aramis slowly turned his head, looking at Richelieu. “Oh, am I to understand that it wasn’t personal sensitivities that made you kill Adele because she chose me over you? Was it for the greater good of France? Or rather to please a poor, old man's vanity who used his power because he couldn't accept defeat? Damn it, you were a man of God who killed innocent people out of greed and envy! And you wonder why Adele loved me and not you?”

“Aramis”, Athos hissed. “Just leave it be!”

Richelieu smirked. “Maybe she didn't love me, but she surely loved the money I paid her. And if I pay for something, then I expect it to be mine. That's the --”

“Enough!” Porthos roared, rising to stand like the wrath of God himself. “The captain is still in hospital, not out of the woods yet, and at least three of our former opponents are in Paris. Can you all for God's sake act like adults and put aside any hostility for each other? If we want to vanquish our enemies, we need to cooperate. Or we part ways here and now. I couldn't care less if you walk out of this door right now.” He turned to where Richelieu and Louis stood, pointing at them. “You two are acting like smug, arrogant dickheads. We are no longer your household guard or your underlings. If you want help, stop all your teasing and bullying.” He turned to Aramis. “As for you, for the time being, put aside your aversion for them. What happened in the past has no place here right now. Fight it out later. Are we clear?” Porthos looked all around from one to the other.

Perking his eyebrows up in his trademark way, Athos crossed his arms in front of him, leaning back in his chair and nodding approvingly towards Porthos. Then he glimpsed at d'Artagnan and Constance, watching them exchange a couple of meaningful glances.

Richelieu glowered, first at Porthos, then at Athos, but he didn't say anything.

Louis avoided looking at anyone at all. He gazed into space like a petulant child, raising his chin to give himself some air of superiority. Sitting down again, very gracefully, very regally, he said, “Well, let's proceed then. I think this issue is resolved and the battle lines are drawn.” He even almost managed to keep any arrogance from his voice.

Aramis stared at Porthos, apparently fighting out a silent battle in his head between what his heart said and his mind advised. Eventually, he gave a curt nod. Avoiding eye contact with Richelieu and Louis, he slowly took a seat.

Athos heaved an internal sigh, for the umpteenth time that day, or so it seemed to him. “All right then, any suggestions about how to proceed?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When Athos reached his landing, wearied and glad to be rid of Richelieu and Louis and the endless discussions with them, he saw Milady de Winter waiting at his door. “Good evening, are you waiting for me?” He inserted the key and opened the door. 

“Yes. May I come in?” Milady answered bluntly, and there was no hint of arrogance or spite in her voice. In fact, she looked tired.

Athos glanced at her. “Of course. You know the way to the living room, I'll be with you in a minute.” He shrugged out of his jacket and made his way to the bathroom. When he returned a few minutes later, his ex-wife was sitting on the couch, waiting for him.

“Do you want a drink?”

“If you have a glass of wine for me I'd be grateful, but something else will do just fine. Coffee or water.”

Such a straight, honest answer without ambiguity was new to Athos, and he had to take another look at her before heading for the kitchen.

When both were sitting with a glass of wine in their hands, Athos finally asked, “What do you want?”

“I saw Buckingham today. And he saw me, too. There's no doubt any more that he knows exactly who I am.”

“We knew he was in Paris, and we were also sure he knew of your past, so this can't be a surprise for you. Why are you so worried?”

Milady didn't reply immediately, obviously she was searching for the right answer. “I don't know, maybe I'm just tired of looking over my shoulder every day. Buckingham was a dangerous man back in his day, more dangerous than anyone I met. I think many people underestimated him. I hate to say it, but I really fear his wrath.”

Athos had never heard his ex-wife talk like this before, so brutally honest, and he was sure she wasn't acting. “You're not alone in this matter. We can help you. Strictly speaking, Buckingham is as much our business as he is yours. Did you find out where he lives?”

“No. I saw him at the Père Lachaise metro station. He was on the other side. He sneered at me and made an unmistakable gesture.” Milady moved her thumb along her throat, from left to right. “I'm beginning to think he's playing cat and mouse with me. And that's a feeling I don't like at all.”

“Did you try to follow him? Do you think he lives somewhere in the area?”

“His train arrived before I could even give him back a rude gesture. I've no idea what he wanted there. So no, he could live anywhere.”

“Gaston and probably Maria de' Medici are back in Paris,” Athos said, changing the subject. “We had a meeting with Louis and Richelieu this afternoon. And contrary to what we all believed, Grimaud is still alive and probably already in France again or on his way back.”

A worried expression clouded Milady's face. “That's a whole lot of bad news at once.”

“And it's even worse. Did you hear that Tréville got shot?”

“Captain Tréville? No, how is he?”

“We saw him today at the hospital. His condition is serious, but he's on the way to recovery and the doctors are confident he’ll live. We're convinced either Grimaud or Marcheaux is behind the attack. RAID has taken over, but they haven't caught anyone yet. I'm not sure if they even know what they're looking for,“ Athos added. “I assume they still believe this was a politically motivated attack, and not the revenge campaign of a single man.”

“But why RAID? That doesn't make sense.”

“I've no idea. Maybe because of Tréville's meeting with the minister of justice a few minutes prior to the attack.” Athos shrugged.

“I hope he’ll recover soon. He's a fine man,” Milady replied sincerely. “It seems, you have a lot on your plate at the moment. I'm sorry for dropping my problems on you as well.”

“Nonsense. The cases are all connected with each other. You're not bothering me.”

“If I can help you with Gaston or Maria de' Medici, let me know. After all, I'm the one they are most probably after. At least that's what I would guess. It seems I'm very popular these days among power-mad aristocrats,” she said humourlessly.

“Maybe you should leave Paris for a while. Leave the bad boys to us. We'll handle Gaston and his mother, and Buckingham won't stay in Paris forever. We could lay a false trail. If he thinks you're no longer in France, he might return to England to his family. Think about it. There's one other thing I wanted to ask you, though. Richelieu said he received a message, naming you as the assassin of Gaston and others, hired by the Queen. Do you have any idea who knew of the contract you had with Anne, beside you, Anne and Constance?”

“He received a note?” Milady asked surprised. “No, I can't imagine anyone knew of the contract. The Queen certainly was very secretive about it, no one ever saw me when I met her, and I don't think Constance ever said a word to anyone.”

“A lot of people we know are out of the question because they died before or with us. Who at the palace could have found out? And how much does he or she really know? It's a kind of threat I don't like one bit.”

“Let me think about it, though I doubt I’ll be able to help you on that. If it really was one of the servants at the palace, I won't know a name, I never had contact to any of them. In any case, it must have been someone who knew Richelieu in his day, maybe even that I worked for him.” Milady took another sip from her glass. “Coming back to Buckingham, what did you have in mind when you spoke of laying a false trail?”

They went through possible options and sometime during their discussion they noticed they were hungry and ordered Chinese. Athos opened another bottle of wine and time passed quickly. The next time he looked at his watch he was surprised. It was way past midnight.

“God, do you know what time it is?”

Milady put her glass down. “I'm sorry I kept you, I didn't realise it had got so late.” She got up.

“No problem, but I need to be up early tomorrow. Lots of things to do.” Athos stood up, taking a step forward at the same time as Milady, which left them standing face to face, only a hand's breath away from each other.

Milady raised herself on tiptoes and quickly kissed Athos on the lips. She moved back a little but their faces were still very close.

Athos looked down at her for a second before responding in kind. Bringing up his hand to cup her head he kissed her, longer than she had, more intense, more demanding. He ended the kiss as abruptly as he had started, panting slightly. Taking a step back, he asked, “Shall I call you a taxi?”

Milady eyed him for a moment, a smile playing around her lips. “Yes, thank you. I'll wait downstairs.” She shouldered her bag and turned to leave.

Athos took his mobile, ready to call his favourite taxi company on speed dial. “It was good talking to you.”

Milady stopped on her way out and looked back. “Yes, it was. My offer still holds, if I can help you with anything, let me know. _Au revoir._ ” With a last meaningful glance, she left the apartment.

Athos waited until he heard the door close behind his ex-wife, then he said softly, “Take care of yourself.” He ordered a taxi and waited by the window until it arrived, making sure she entered the car safely. Then he made his way to the bedroom, slowly and deep in thought.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Athos woke from the sound of rain pattering against his window. He lay with his eyes still closed, listening to the noise on the window sill, thinking about last night. Finally coming to the moment when he had kissed his ex-wife, he groaned and pondered staying in bed for the rest of the day. Instead, deciding he was a fool, he rose to get a shower. On his way to the bathroom he made a detour to the kitchen, switching on the coffee machine. 

He took his time showering and dressing, thinking about the previous evening. It had felt good to talk to his ex-wife and – that much he had to admit – to kiss her. He realised it was time to make up his mind about the feelings he still had for her. He had tried to push them to the back of his mind ever since that first night she had re-appeared in his life. He knew he couldn't ignore it any longer but decided to put off that decision until the issues with Grimaud, Gaston and the rest were resolved.

A quarter of an hour later he padded back to the kitchen with his hair still wet, small rivulets of water running down his temple and leaving wet spots on his fresh shirt. Leaning against the counter, he sipped his coffee, staring with unseeing eyes into the dull morning outside his window. At least the rain had died down while he had been in the bathroom.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Even before opening the entrence door, Athos could hear Aramis ranting and raving. Alarmed, he quickly entered the office and saw Aramis in his office, flourishing his hands angrily, while Porthos apparently tried to talk to him insistently but obviously in vain. 

“What's wrong?” Athos asked Constance.

“You should ask them,” she replied, glancing at Aramis' office.

Athos noticed that d'Artagnan was in the office, too, sitting at the desk and looking so downcast that Athos feared the young man might have made a silly mistake and Aramis was unloading his pent-up frustration and anger on him. Most likely for no reason. “What the...” Athos looked at Constance again. “Where's Charlène?”

“It's her day off.” Constance squinted at Athos. “Since the beginning of the year she only works Monday to Thursday, remember?”

Athos stared at Constance, trying to remember if they had talked about this – which they most likely had – and when he had approved it. “Right. I better go and see what's going on in there.”

Porthos seemed to abandon his effort to talk some sense into Aramis the moment he saw Athos approach.

“What's going on?” Athos asked, loud enough that his voice drowned everything else.

Aramis fell silent mid-sentence and turned to Athos. “I can tell you what's wrong. Marcheaux’s escaped.”

Athos gaped at Aramis, convinced he must have misheard. “What?”

“You heard right,” d'Artagnan moaned.

“Can you believe it? First they delay his extradition for _weeks_ and screw up the business with Feron, and now they lose Marcheaux, too. How stupid can they get, I wonder? For weeks they’ve been trying to find a sign of Feron and all they have to show is complete failure. And now that Marcheaux is finally, _finally_ being extradited to France, they let him slip away! Just like that.” Aramis flicked his fingers. He fell silent, slumping into his chair. Burying his face in his hands, the proverbial picture of misery, he muttered, “I should have known. _Oh, putain de merde!”_

Athos turned to Porthos. “How could this happen?”

Porthos rolled his eyes. “I don't know. Incompetence? Stupidity? Bribery? Take your pick.”

Turning to d'Artagnan, Athos said, “What exactly happened?”

D'Artagnan sighed. “Marcheaux was on his way to the airport, he should have been extradited to France this morning. Somehow the police managed to lose track of the prison van, and when they found it again, Marcheaux was gone and the police officers who had accompanied the transport had been overpowered, handcuffed and knocked unconscious. Not necessarily in that order.”

“Do they have a trace?”

Aramis laughed humourlessly, looking up. “Are you kidding? Marcheaux is gone, I'm sure he's already somewhere near the border, or already in France. Before the Spanish police start searching for him in earnest he will already have killed a few people here. _¡Idiotas!”_

“You're being unfair,” Porthos said in a low voice.

“I know,” Aramis replied. “I'm frustrated and concerned for the safety of my family.”

Athos closed his eyes briefly, breathing deeply. “This takes everything to a new level. Who told you about Marcheaux? Retancourt?”

“No, _comisario_ Cordobes from Barcelona, he knew I had a personal interest in Marcheaux and kindly called me directly after he had informed the commissioner's office.”

“That's nice of him,” Athos replied.

“Doesn't change the fact that they screwed things up badly,” Aramis said.

“No, but I think Cordobes is not the one responsible for it. Well, it can't be helped. Maybe they’ll catch him before he returns to France. For now, we should concentrate on those we definitely know are in Paris at the moment, namely Gaston and Maria de' Medici. How are things going there, d'Artagnan? Do we have an address?”

The young man sat up. “Roughly, yes. I narrowed down his whereabouts to an area near the Place de la Nation. Porthos and I wanted to check it out later. I've hacked into some of the hotel registers there, but the computer didn't spit out any results. Either they used false names or put up at one of the more shabby doss houses.”

“Okay, go there and check it out. Needless to say, be careful.”

“Of course, needless to say. We know how to look after ourselves,” said Porthos. “I'll have to finish one thing, then we can go. Okay?”

D'Artagnan nodded and rose. “Come by when you're ready, I'll check the tracker again, see if Gaston has made a move.”

“Wait,” Athos said. “How come you can't exactly say where he is? I thought you're tracking his mobile. Doesn't the programme you use show you an exact location? Like, a street or building?”

D'Artagnan sighed. “It does. Unfortunately, it only sends a signal when the mobile is switched on. And it seems Gaston has switched it off ever since they arrived in Paris. The last position I received was from the Cours de Vincennes, heading to the Place de la Nation. The mobile went off shortly after. I've only got the bug Porthos placed in Gaston's luggage, and that seems to have been standing on the Avenue Doria since yesterday, most likely in a car. We'll start our search from there.”

“Okay. Aramis and I will carry on with Grimaud. I'll speak to the commissioner's office later and see if there is any news, either from the attackers or Grimaud. Nowadays, one would think they should be able to find out whether he has passed through customs somewhere or not.”

It was almost palpable how the mood had dropped, annoyance and frustration seizing hold of them. They desperately needed to succeed with at least one of the many pressing matters that kept them occupied at the moment, well aware of the fact that one further punch to the gut could as well be the kiss of death for them.

They parted ways, and d'Artagnan and Porthos left a little while later to check the whereabouts of Gaston.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“So, what did you find out about mother and son?” Aramis asked, closing the door with his right elbow while balancing a mug of coffee and some paper print-outs on a thick filing folder. 

“We know where Gaston is staying and we can confirm that Maria de' Medici aka Catarina Ottajano is staying there as well,” Porthos' said grimly. He should have been happy about the research's result, but it had dampened his mood further. Seeing both Gaston and Maria in the flesh again had only fuelled his dislike.

“They're staying in a small hotel on Rue du Fabourg Saint-Antoine, registered as Gaston de Hanovre and Maria Ottajano. I'm not sure why I missed the names in my online search, I thought the hotel was on my list, but maybe they just don't enter guest data into their computer,” d'Artagnan muttered. “Anyway, we've seen them entering the hotel together. It was pure luck we were there when they returned, and beside the fact that we know where they're staying the night and that they're not using false names, we have nothing. Gaston was speaking on a mobile when he entered the hotel, and since the mobile phone I'm tracking is still dead he has either lost it or discarded it. I hope he didn't suspect anything.”

“All right. We must consider what we are going to do now. We could confront them and demand to know what they want in Paris. See if they bear grudges against Anne and Milady as well, or if they're here only for Louis. Or we shadow them, which means we need to work out a schedule that leaves us enough time to continue with the Grimaud issue and guard Louis.” Athos scratched his jaw. He had forgotten to shave and the stubble made a scraping sound. Addressing d'Artagnan, he asked, “Is it possible to install a new tracker? That would make things easier.”

“Difficult,” d'Artagnan answered, staring at Athos, who could see that the Gascon was already going through various options, none of them apparently doable.

Aramis' mobile buzzed and he was briefly torn between taking the call or simply ignoring it. He glanced at the display and when he saw that the caller was Anne he said, “I'm back in a minute.” Rising to leave the meeting room, he answered the call. _“Hola corazon,_ I'm busy, can I call you back?”

Even before Aramis had finished his short greeting, Anne's loud voice could be heard through the speaker, sounding shrill and frantic.

Aramis froze.

The others stopped talking, curiously looking at Aramis whose face had turned into a waxen mask.

“What?” he croaked. “Why?” He lost his grip on the mobile and the device slipped through his fingers, clattering on the table. He seemed to be unaware of it for he simply kept staring into space, hand still raised.

While Anne's frantic shouting kept seeping through the speaker, Athos picked up the phone. “Anne, calm down, what happened? What's wrong?”

Aramis finally shook off his stupor and gazed at Athos. “Henri is missing,” he said in a flat voice.

Athos, having problems making sense of Anne's incoherent sobbing, stared at Aramis. “What? Anne, calm down and tell us what has happened, I'll put you on speakerphone.” He pushed the respective button and put the phone on the table in front of him. “What has happened to Henri? Take a deep breath and start from the beginning.”

Anne was silent for a moment, apparently taking deep breaths and trying to pull herself together. “Henri is gone. I was away for just a few minutes, no longer than twenty, I needed to get something from the apothecary around the corner.” She sobbed but spoke on as soon as she trusted her voice again. “Madame Maréchal from downstairs kindly looked after him. He was sleeping and I thought I would be back before he’d wake up anyway and Madame Maréchal has looked after him so many times before. There was no reason why I should not just---,” she broke off with another sob.

“Anne, please calm down. What happened next?” Aramis had regained some of his composure, though he was still white as a sheet.

“When I came back our door was open and Henri and Madame Maréchal were gone. I looked everywhere but I can't find them. They've disappeared! And there's blood on the floor!” she shouted, sobbing again. Obviously, she was on the brink of a breakdown.

Athos got up. “Anne, we're on our way. Stay calm and call the police. Do it now! Stay out of the flat. Meet us downstairs. Have you checked if Madame Maréchal has returned to her flat with Henri?” Athos grabbed the mobile and beckoned the others to get moving. “Anne?”

“I have, she's not there. She's not answering the door.” Suddenly, Anne's voice had lost any emotion, when she spoke it was with a flat and hollow tone. “There's blood on the floor,” she repeated.

“Call the police. Now!” Athos ordered again and pushed the mobile into Aramis' hands, turning to d'Artagnan. “You and Constance stay here. Call the police, I'm not sure Anne is capable of doing it. And then try to reach Retancourt. Tell her what happened. We need forensics and people to search for Henri. She will know what to do. Constance can help you with the calls.”

D'Artagnan nodded.

“If Retancourt is not available, try to get someone else we know. Danglard or the lieutenant, what's his name? The one who looks like a French bulldog, you know who I mean.”

Porthos and Aramis were already out of the door and Athos hurried to keep up with them.

For once, Athos had been lucky and had found a parking space near the office when he'd last used his car, which came in handy now. They took less than eight minutes to reach Anne and Aramis' flat, mostly courtesy of Porthos' ruthless driving style.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We know who's behind this, don't we?” Aramis replied in a flat voice. “You all know he would stop at nothing to reach his goals. That man has no soul.”

Anne stood in front of the house, shaking slightly, but she seemed to have regained her composure. There was no sign of police yet. 

Porthos pulled into a no parking area and they jumped out.

Wordlessly, Aramis put his arms around Anne, holding her tight. He could feel her shoulders shake and sobs work their way up her body until she could no longer hold them back. Tenderly, he stroked her hair, whispering, “Everything will be okay. We'll bring him back.” Even if he was not really convinced by his own words it would help to calm her, and that was all that counted.

Athos stepped up to them. “Have you searched her flat? I mean your neighbour's, the one who looked after Henri.”

Anne took a step back, leaving the comfort of Aramis' arms. “No, she didn't open the door. I'm sure she's not there.”

“Have you looked everywhere at ours? Maybe Henri’s hiding in a wardrobe or under our bed,” Aramis said, clutching at every straw. “Maybe this has a very rational explanation.”

Anne's eyes welled up with tears again and she shook her head. “I looked everywhere. He's not here!”

Athos signalled with his head that they would go inside, and Aramis and Anne followed him and Porthos.

“Where's Madame Maréchal's flat?” asked Athos.

“This one,” Aramis said, pointing to the door on the right.

“Porthos,” Athos ordered, nodding towards the door.

Porthos fished a set of picklocks out of his pocket and had the door open in less than ten seconds. “Hello?” he called, opening the door. “Anyone there?”

They stepped inside, and it took them only a minute or so to make sure that the flat was empty. No sign of Henri or Madame Maréchal.

“Let's go upstairs,” Athos said. Turning to Anne, he added, “Would you wait here until the police arrive? Can you do that?”

Anne looked like she wanted to reply something, but then she changed her mind and nodded.

Aramis briefly kissed her on the brow before following the others, taking two steps at a time.

When they reached the landing, the door to Aramis and Anne's flat was still wide open and almost immediately they spotted trails of blood on the oak parquet in the hallway. Aramis jerked to a halt, staring at the red dots and smudgy lines on the floor, breathing rapidly.

Porthos put a hand on his friend's shoulder. “This doesn't have to mean it's Henri's. I'm sure it's not his.”

“We know who's behind this, don't we?” Aramis replied in a flat voice. “You all know he would stop at nothing to reach his goals. That man has no soul.”

“We don't know anything yet. Let's wait for the police,” Athos ordered, carefully stepping over the spots of blood on the floor and entering the flat.

Like Anne had said, the flat was empty, and they found no visible signs of struggle. As far as Aramis could tell, Henri's bedcover was missing, and that was all. Outside, they heard voices and footsteps on the stairway. Moments later Danglard appeared in front of the door, stopping when he saw the blood on the ground. Behind him, more police officers came up the stairs.

“D'Artagnan called, he said something about child abduction and possible casualties?” Danglard looked sincerely concerned. “Is it your child?” he asked, looking at Aramis.

“Yes. Anne's and my son. It looks like he was abducted while she was away for a few minutes. I'm sure Grimaud is the one responsible for it.”

“What makes you say that?” Danglard asked, stepping aside to let two forensic scientists pass by. “You should come outside and let the men do their work,” he added.

“It must be him, I can't think of anyone else who would have an interest in abducting Henri. He wants us, and Henri is the bait,” Aramis answered.

“The detective chief superintendent has informed you about the newest development regarding Grimaud, right?” Athos asked. “That despite what we thought he's still alive?”

“Yes. You should come down with me to answer some questions. We've already got officers searching the nearby area. Oh!” He turned to Aramis again. “We need something from Henri for DNA-matching.” His gaze wandered to the blood trails on the floor and back. “And also from this neighbour who was with him.”

“Of course,” Aramis replied but didn't make a move to meet the request.

Porthos eyed his friend briefly before addressing Danglard, “Would a soother be sufficient? Or I'll try to find his tooth brush, he has one. Wait a minute.” He walked back into the flat, avoiding the equipment the forensic scientists started spreading on the floor. He re-appeared a few minutes later, handing Henri's tooth brush as well as one of his baby soothers to one of the police officers in the flat.

Brujon was there, too, speaking to Anne when the Musketeers returned to the ground floor together with Danglard. He took notes of what Anne told him.

“I would like to know more about this neighbour, Madame Maréchal. Did she often look after Henri? For how long and how well do you know her?” Danglard asked.

Before Aramis could answer, one of the officers came walking over from the police car. “Lieutenant, we’ve just received notification that a disoriented elderly woman has been found near the Statue Paul Verlaine over at the Jardin de Luxembourg. It might be the missing woman.”

“Where is she now?” Danglard asked. “Is there a child with her?”

“They called an ambulance, she's still on-site. They said nothing about a child, though.”

“I'll go there, tell them they should wait for us.” Danglard turned to Aramis. “One of you should come with me, that would make an identification easier.” He turned back to the officer. “Give new orders for the Jardin du Luxembourg to be searched thoroughly for the child.” After a quick glance towards Athos he added, “And see to that the arrest warrant for Lucien Grimaud is renewed. Put child abduction on the list as well and send it around to every station again.”

Both Aramis and Anne accompanied Danglard to the Jardin du Luxembourg. The elderly woman was indeed Madame Maréchal. She had been disoriented due to a head blow, but when they arrived she was able to answer questions again. She told them a delivery man had rung the doorbell and she had opened the door, only to find two men outside who were definitely not from a parcel service. They had immediately dealt a blow to her head and she had fallen, knocking her head on the side table on her way down. While she was dazed from the fall, they had taken Henri from his bed and forced her to go with them.

“They had a knife and threatened to kill the boy if I screamed. What was I supposed to do?” she said shakily with tears in her eyes. “There was a car outside and they forced me to get in. I was in the back seat and there was another man beside me, with Henri. Someone shouted and suddenly the man beside me hit me again on the head. Then I came around in the park.” She was trembling uncontrollably by now, and one of the medics intervened and said Madame Maréchal was shocked and needed to be treated.

“Take her to the hospital,” Danglard said to the medic. “We're finished here.”

“I'm so sorry,” Madame Maréchal sobbed, squeezing Anne's hand. “I pray to God that it will end well.”

Danglard waited until the ambulance had driven off, then he addressed Anne and Aramis. “If Madame Maréchal's statement is true then we must assume that the kidnapper's target was Henri. This looks well planned, they knew exactly when the old lady was alone with the boy. Do you have enemies? From what I know, you're a wealthy woman. This is probably a case of a ransom demand. We should go back to your apartment in case the kidnappers try to contact you.”

Aramis glowered at Danglard. “What a stupid question, you should know about our enemies, have we not gone through enough recently? As far as I recall you've been there most of the time to clean up afterwards. So it's pretty obvious that yes, we do have enemies, and you quite well know who.”

“You must consider that this might have nothing to do with the troubles you had last year. We're already looking for Grimaud again by order of the commissioner, but we should not focus only on him. Let's go back and talk through who else could be behind the kidnapping. Madame Maréchal gave a first hand description of the two attackers, let's see if police records spit out a match.” Danglard made his way to the police car, relying on Anne and Aramis to follow him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Back at the crime scene, Athos and Porthos were still waiting outside. Aramis and Anne joined them while Danglard hurried upstairs to see how far the forensic team had come with their investigations. 

“He thinks it could be a case of ransom demand. All they do is waste valuable time, we know who did this,” Aramis growled. “But Danglard just won't listen!”

“Easy,” Athos said. “They're already searching for Grimaud, but they need to take into account every possible aspect of this case. Even if we're convinced it's Grimaud's doing, it could still be something else, someone else. We can't afford to neglect even the tiniest trace. Have patience. I know it's hard,” Athos ended, grabbing Aramis' shoulder and giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze.

“Let the police do what must be done, we'll follow our own trail. We'll hunt Grimaud down and get Henri back,” Porthos added.

Danglard came back, beckoning Aramis and Anne over to join him and two other officers at the police van so they could talk through next steps.

“He wants at least one of us to stay here, in case the kidnappers try to make contact via the land-line or even show up here”, Aramis said, signalling to Danglard that he and Anne would join him in a moment. “Do you think Constance could come by and keep Anne company?” Aramis asked, turning to Athos. “I'd rather like to join you at the office to take matters in hand myself.”

Athos nodded. “Porthos and I willl return to the office, join us as soon as you're through here. I'll send Constance over, I'm sure she's happy to help and support Anne.”

Porthos quickly hugged Aramis, whispering something in his ear before hurrying after Athos to get into the car while Aramis and Anne joined the police officers.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“He has not left Paris. He's somewhere here where we can easily find him, and Henri is the bait. The question is where. Where does he hide?” Aramis looked at the others, all assembled around the table in the meeting room. 

“Where did Philippe Feron live back then? Didn't he have an estate nearby?” D'Artagnan asked.

“Most of the time he lived at the Louvre, he had his rooms in the east wing,” Athos replied. “That doesn't get us anywhere, I don't imagine Grimaud is waiting somewhere there for us.”

“Yes, but he had something else. Not the palace in Beaumont, something smaller, something closer.” Porthos scratched his chin, thinking. “From what I overheard once from some Red Guards, Marcheaux had complained that Grimaud was spending a lot of time there with Feron. Too much time for the likes of Marcheaux. Sometimes days and weeks, Grimaud had his own rooms. There was even talk that Feron was somehow dependent on Grimaud, though I never heard how or why.”

After a moment's silence Aramis said, “There was an estate in Arcueil, in the south-east of Paris. Maison Montrouge or Montaroux or so.”

“Right! Do we know if this place still exists?” Athos asked to the room at large.

“Give me a minute.” D'Artagnan's fingers flew over the screen of the tablet computer he had brought with him. He scrolled up and down and typed some more. “There. Montrouge. The estate is now owned by the _service des sites et monuments nationaux_. It's been untenanted for years. There was a fire some years ago and it seems there isn’t enough money to restore it. They bought it in 1958 from a private owner and had it rented out for a while. Look.” D'Artagnan turned his computer screen so all could see the place.

“We should search there. It's the perfect place for Grimaud to hide plus he knows we might eventually remember it. I can't think of anywhere else where Grimaud could hide in the hope that we'll find him. I'm sure he stayed within the Greater Paris area and I'm sure Henri is the bait to lure us to him.” Aramis looked expectantly at the others.

“Frankly, on the fly, this is probably the only hiding place we're able to come up with at the moment and it’s as good as anything else. We should check it out,” Porthos replied.

“Do we inform Danglard?” d'Artagnan asked.

“No,” Athos said after a moment's contemplation. “Aramis is right, this is about us. If the police show up there, Grimaud might do something rash.” Like killing Henri, he thought. “We'll scout it out and monitor the place. Once we know if Grimaud is there, and if Henri is there, and how many people Grimaud has with him, we can either take action or call the police.”

“Okay, here's my suggestion,” Porthos said. “D'Artagnan and I will check out the place. If we find any trace that Grimaud is there, we'll come back and plan how to proceed. If the place is deserted we must think of something else. Aramis, you can go home and see how Anne is doing and if there is news from the police. We'll let you know as soon as we're back.” Turning to Athos, he added, “Think about any other places where Grimaud might be hiding, in case Montrouge is deserted. Maybe you remember something else. As a last resort, we could even ask Louis if he knows of places Feron frequented, and with him Grimaud.”

“All right,” Athos replied. “I'll try to get Tréville on the phone and see if he can remember something. He might know of some more places Feron and Grimaud hung around back then. I'd rather not ask Louis if it can be avoided.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Athos, you should answer your phone.” Charlène stood on the threshold to Athos' office, a grim expression on her face. She had been alarmed by Constance and immediately thrown her day off to the wind after hearing what had happened. Half an hour later she had taken over from Constance who had gone to keep Anne company. 

Athos looked up; he had not answered any of the numerous calls his phone had announced during the last hour. He had barely glanced at it to see if he knew the caller's number, ignoring every single one, safe in the knowledge that all the important ones he was waiting for would come in on his mobile. Obviously, some of the more persistent callers were now trying to reach him via the main line at the reception desk. Whose ringing he had also ignored whenever Charlène had tried to reach him. “I don't have time. Tell them I'll call back. Some day.”

“This one you should really take, he's very upset and unfriendly. And it sounds important.”

“Who is it?” Atos asked with a sigh in his voice.

“Ludwig von Hannover, that German prince who was here yesterday, and he says it's very urgent and he's not willing to let himself being fobbed off.”

Athos groaned. “He's the last person I want to deal with now. Put him through,” he added with a sigh.

“Gaston is outside, what should I do?” Louis blared as soon as Athos answered the call. “You need to come immediately!”

“I can't, I don't have time at the moment,” Athos replied.

“That's not how it works, you promised to help, we have a deal,“ Louis ranted. “What do you think I'm paying you for?”

“Until now you've not paid one Euro to our firm, so your claim doesn't hold.”

“But what should I do?”

“Maybe you should simply let him in and ask what he wants?”

“This is not funny,” Louis hissed. “You need to deal with him. Now!”

Athos glanced at the tiny time display on his computer screen, silently calculating the time Porthos and d'Artagnan would need until they were back. Factoring in the traffic and the distance they had to travel they would need at least three-quarters of an hour to the office, and he had not factored in the time they would need to spy out whether Grimaud was there or not. Porthos had sent an SMS twenty minutes before when they had arrived at the estate. If he called a cab he could be at Louis' place in ten minutes, so he had half an hour to sort things out with Gaston. “Listen, I really don't have time to deal with this right now. However, if you aren't willing to talk to him yourself, I could be at your place in about ten minutes and see what he wants, but I need to be back in the office in half an hour, and not one minute later. And I'll only come by if you manage to stall him until I'm there, I won't make the trip only to find that Gaston has already gone.”

“And how should I do that?” asked Louis angrily.

“I don't care how you accomplish it, but I'll be really pissed off if he's not there any more when I arrive,” Athos replied equally angrily. “I have other, more important problems right now than mediating between brothers who don't get along with each other.”

“You know there's more at stake here than me getting along with Gaston,” Louis snarled.

“And that's why I'll be with you in a few minutes. Stall for time,” Athos responded, hanging up without waiting for another comment or rant from Louis.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“ _Bonjour_ ,” Athos greeted, approaching Gaston who leaned against the sandstone archway on Louis' residence. Athos had recognized the former Duc d'Orleans immediately upon spotting him. He had the same small body shape as in former times, the pale face bearing the same smug expression, the frizzy hair not as long as before but equally unattractive. He hadn't changed at all, bar the modern clothes he wore now. “I'm Olivier d'Autevielle, I'm here at the request of your brother Ludwig who wants to get to know why you're here in Paris and what you want from him.” 

Gaston ignored Athos' outstretched hand, looking Athos up and down. “Are you his bodyguard or his lawyer?”

“Your brother hired us for his personal protection while he's here in Paris. Due to incidents in the past and threats you've voiced, Ludwig would like to know what you want from him here. As you will understand, he's cautious and unsure why you’re calling on him.”

Despite his arrogant appearance, Gaston looked surprised. “Is he afraid I would harm him? Does he think he needs a bodyguard to protect him from me?”

Athos shrugged, making a vague move with his head.

Gaston looked up at the house front. “Can I talk to him when you're there to ensure his safety?” His gaze returned to Athos. “I'm not armed, and I'm not intending to harm him, or his family, in any way, despite what I might have said in the past. I'm in some financial embarrassment I want to talk about with Ludwig. And there are some private matters concerning him and me that he needs to be informed about. That's all.”

Athos regarded Gaston for a moment, wondering if the private issues he spoke of related to their mother, Marie de' Medici. “And there's no other reason why you're here in Paris? No score you have to settle with someone? Maybe from your past?” The look of incomprehension on Gaston's face looked genuine, but Athos trusted neither the expression nor the answer he got.

“No, I just want to speak with Ludwig.”

“I'll talk to your brother and find out if he's willing to see you. However, I don't have much time right now, if he's not willing to talk with you alone, we'll have to arrange a meeting at another time. Wait here,” Athos said, turning away to call Louis out of hearing from Gaston.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Athos was back in the office a few minutes before Porthos and d'Artagnan returned. 

“He's there,” Porthos said as soon as he stepped through the office door. “We haven't seen Henri, but I'm sure Grimaud is hiding him there. We've seen four men with Grimaud, so there are at least five men in the house, but my guess is there are more, probably two or three more. One was in the front yard, and another one checked the back of the estate now and then. Through one of the windows we could see Grimaud with two more men. And then there was a window in the second floor where we could make out a shadow, most likely of a man, moving there from time to time. My guess is that's were Henri is, guarded by one or two of Grimaud's men.”

Aramis expression changed during Porthos' report. He seemed to constantly fight against the urge to hit something hard, his hands tirelessly clenching and unclenching. “I can't bear the thought of Henri in the hand of that scum. He must be scared to death. Grimaud must pay for this!”

“He will,” Athos said firmly. “Now we must decide if we bring the police into the loop or if we go in there alone.”

“We'll solve this without police,” Aramis said without hesitation. “Grimaud wants us. I won't risk my son's life by handing this over to the police. We go in and finish Grimaud off once and for all. But,” he added, looking each of his friends straight in the eye, one by one. “Henri comes first. His safety is paramount. I don't care what happens to me, if Grimaud wants to kill me, let him, as long as it saves Henri. Understood?”

“Of course,” Porthos answered in place of the others, grabbing Aramis' shoulder and giving it a firm squeeze. “Each and every one of us is willing to lay down his life for Henri. That's without question. All for one.”

“Then I'd say let's arm ourselves. I have a few extras in the gun safe we're going to need.” Athos rose, beckoning the others to follow him to his office. “You can tell us the rest on our way to Arcueil.”

“There's not really much more than we just reported, only that the location of the mansion is not advantageous for us, but could be worse. We might be able to enter from the back without being seen,” Porthos replied.

“Before we go, I want to print out some plan of site, I've found one on a website for real estate and some more on the History of Ancient Buildings' website,” d'Artagnan said. “Not sure how reliable they are, but it's better than nothing.”

While they picked various weapons from the gun safe, Athos gave a short report of his encounter with Gaston.

“And he didn't recognise you?” d'Artagnan asked. “What did Louis say? Did he let him in?”

“He was willing to talk to Gaston at a restaurant and asked Richelieu to join them. I'm sure I'll still get a lecture about how I let him down and threw him to the wolves and so on, but I couldn't care less about that at the moment. I convinced him that Gaston would never dare to attack him with so many people around and that Richelieu's presence alone would scare Gaston off. If Gaston really is here only to talk to Louis about financial problems and maybe about their mother, it would be one problem less on our list. Let's keep our fingers crossed. To me, Gaston didn't give the impression that he knew me from back in time. Let's hope he's equally as clueless about Anne's role in his assassination.”

“So you don't know what they talked about?” Aramis asked, weighing two different-sized handguns in his hands.

“No, I left as soon as Richelieu arrived and Louis finally dared to come downstairs. If they talked about anything we need to know, I'm sure we'll get to hear it soon. Right now I don't care about what it was.”

When everyone had picked some extra ammunition, Athos locked the gun safe again. “We leave in fifteen minutes. Is it enough time for you to print out the plans?” Athos asked, turning towards d'Artagnan.

“Should be sufficient,” the young man replied, swivelled on his heel and left the room.

“What are you going to tell Anne?” Athos asked, facing Aramis.

Aramis briefly thought about his answer. “I'll call and tell her that we're going after Grimaud. I think that's all she needs to know.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I'm okay,” Aramis shouted. Before he could say more, a shot rang through the room. He looked around in time to see Athos being swept from his feet, flailing about before crushing to the floor. His pistol was whipped from his hand, sliding over the floor.

Porthos lowered the binoculars. “I still can't make out how many men are in the room on the second floor and if it's really where Henri is being held. We may have to take a chance at it.”

“I won't go in until we know for sure if Henri is there and where he is,” Aramis replied. "What if everyone including Grimaud is getting killed during the fight and we can't find Henri in the house because Grimaud has hidden him somewhere else? Where would we start searching then?”

“I don't think that's the case, he would need more men to guard Henri elsewhere, and Grimaud was never a man who liked to hand over control to anyone else. But that's a variable we need to work with at the moment. Eventually, we need to confront him one way or the other to find out where Henri is,” Athos said calmly. “However, I suggest we wait a little longer, maybe we'll get the proof we need about where they’re holding Henri. What about the number of men on the ground floor?” 

“No news. I’ve still counted five, one outside on the front, one in the back, two with Grimaud in the room on the ground floor. There's only light and movement in the room on the far left of our position, and in the second floor room to the right. If there are more men, then they are either hiding or sleeping. I can't make out any movement anywhere else.”

“Let me have a look at the plans again,” Athos said, stretching out his hand to d'Artagnan who lay on lookout left from Athos.

“Look,” Aramis said. “There's the man at the back of the house again, he's smoking. If I'm not mistaken he's controlling the back every twenty minutes give or take, smoking every time. He's using the round for a smoke break, which makes him predictable. We're here for a little over an hour, and he came out to make his round four times, roughly every twenty minutes. That gives us a window of fifteen minutes to approach the house from the back.”

“Yeah, but unfortunately there's this wide stretch of unplanted field between here and the stable. We need to get to the other side first, across from here, where the copse is,” Porthos replied.

“In about a quarter of an hour the sun will have set completely, then it'll be dark enough to make a move, especially if we have the darker background of the copse behind us,” Athos said, arranging the plans in front of him.

“It’s odd that Grimaud chose this place here as his hideout, in this rural area and not somewhere in the city,” d'Artagnan remarked.

“For him, this place here definitely has its pros. Here, he has more means of escape, he has a better view than in the city of who's approaching the house,” Athos said, studying the plans. “For us it has definitely more cons. Too many variables we need to take into account. But maybe he simply chose it out of a touch of sentiment.“

“Wait, what's that?” Porthos said, drawing the others' attention to a car that had left the main road and turned into the private road that served as the approach to the estate.

They ducked lower and watched the car make its way until it had turned into the courtyard. Someone left the car, but they couldn't make out who it was or how many. Their sight was obstructed by shrubbery and a small wall. The car left again, the stickers on the windshield now revealing that it was apparently a cab from a private company. It seemed that only one person had left the vehicle, stepping into the exposed part of the courtyard now, and in this moment they could make out who it was.

“Anne,” Aramis gasped, rising from his hiding place.

“Aramis, get down”, Athos hissed, grabbing Aramis' arm to pull him back down.

“What’s she doing here?” Aramis tore himself away from Athos' grip, rising to his full height and standing like a beacon in the landscape. Without thinking, he hurried towards the estate where Grimaud was hiding and Anne was crossing the yard towards the front door, obviously at the point of walking right into Grimaud's trap.

“Aramis, stop!” Athos called after him, still crouching to keep his cover. Cursing under his breath, he watched Aramis make his way to the empty courtyard. Anne had disappeared inside the house.

“What a load of shit,” Porthos commented. “There goes our moment of surprise.”

“I wish Aramis would for once in his life listen to his head not his heart!” Athos swore through gritted teeth. “But it can't be helped. We can only try to save what can be saved.”

“He's almost there,” d'Artagnan said, watching Aramis leap over the small wall and hasten toward the front door.

They saw him knock and a few seconds later step through the door. Then he was gone.

“What now?” Porthos asked.

“Change of plan,” Athos growled, motioning them to follow him back into the copse at their rear.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Aramis neither knew the man who opened the door nor had he ever seen him before, but that didn't matter. All that mattered to him was that Grimaud was somewhere inside, and that Anne was there as well. The front door opened into a dim, long hallway with a number of doors opening off on either side. Before he could take in any more details he was rudely pushed face-first against a wall and searched cruder than necessary. The man relieved Aramis of all his weapons. Then he was pushed forward with a violent blow and he stumbled along the floor. The third door to the left stood slightly ajar and he could hear raised voices, one of which belonged to Anne. He quickened his pace but was held back by someone painfully digging his fingers into his shoulder. When they reached the door, one of the men kicked it open and pushed Aramis forward. 

“We've another new arrival,” the man sneered, giving Aramis another push.

Grimaud turned his head. “Always so easy to lure you all in. It's rather sickening how you care for each other and stand in for each other. I must admit, though, I didn't reckon with you showing up here so quickly. I wasn't even sure if she would come.”

Aramis quickly looked at Anne to see if she was alright, then his gaze returned to Grimaud. “I'm here, that's what you wanted. Now let her and the child go.”

“You promised to let Henri and Aramis go if I come. I'm here, now keep your word and bring him,” Anne shouted, not paying heed to Aramis' words.

Aramis' gaze returned to Anne. Obviously, Grimaud's bait had not only been Henri but he had also managed to make Anne believe that Aramis – and maybe the rest of them – had been taken prisoner as well. That might explain why she came here alone, why she had not tried to call them. She had probably not even told the police about Grimaud's call out of fear for Henri's life. Anne had seen for herself in the past what Grimaud was capable of. Wondering how she had managed to slip out of the house without Constance or the police noticing it, he eyed her, and it worried him even more that Anne had barely registered his entering and was almost acting as if he wasn't here at all. Looking closer he saw that she was quivering with emotion, though she fought hard not to let it show. Aramis realised that only her steely self-control was apparently keeping her from having a breakdown here and now. The fear for Henri was one fear too much over the past months, it was about tipping the scales to have her crack up. It was no wonder she had made the irrational decision to come here, no wonder she seemed to have forgotten that especially Grimaud could not be trusted to keep his word.

Grimaud laughed spitefully. “What in my words made you think you'd ever see him again? I said I'd let him go if you came, which I might still do when I'm finished here, but I never promised you would leave with him. None of you will.”

Grimaud's icy stare caught Aramis almost off guard, the hate in the man's eyes causing him to flinch. He had to swallow before he found his voice. “Again, Grimaud, what you want is me, there's no need to harm Anne or Henri. Let them go. You can do whatever you want with me. Your quarrel is with me, not with her, not with the child.” He hoped his voice wouldn't betray him, wouldn't reveal his true emotions.

“That's not what you said you'd--” Anne pleaded but was cut off.

“Shut up woman, you’re getting on my nerves!” Grimaud darted an angry glance at Anne, then his attention returned to Aramis. “What is he to you?” 

Aramis didn't know what Grimaud was up to and quickly thought about possible answers.

“He's not your son, Rochefort checked that. So why are you so obsessed with the child? What is it with you all? He's not the Dauphin. Even back then I never understood what made men swear allegiance to someone who's not family, who's treating those who risk their lives for them disdainfully, who's not even paying much for the job and appreciating the service even less.” Grimaud narrowed his eyes to slits, looking Aramis up and down. “I can understand why you might have felt the need to lay down your life to protect King and country, or the Dauphin, out of some twisted kind of Musketeer honour, but you have no obligations towards them now. And still you're all here,” Grimaud said thoughtfully. “Don't tell me your friends are not somewhere out there. You would never have come here without their backup.” He quickly glanced at Anne. “Are you really willing to die for her?”

“You know nothing of us, and you will never understand things like loyalty and honour. It doesn't matter whether I'm related to Henri or not. I've sworn to bring him back, and I never break a promise. Neither of us do. If you were a man of honour, you would keep your word and let Anne and Henri go. You have me, and if you want, you'll have the others, too. We're not afraid of dying.”

“Big words for a man in your position.” Grimaud squinted his eyes, as if reading something from Aramis' face. “I'm sure you're hiding something. I can understand why the child matters so much to his mother, but why do _you_ care so much for him?”

“Like I said, if you were a man of honour you would understand such things,” Aramis replied as nonchalantly as he could muster. But only a moment later he felt the blood in his veins turn into rivers of ice when he saw a flicker of realisation on Grimaud's face.

“My God,” Grimaud whispered, a wolfish grin spreading on his face. “He _is_ the reborn Dauphin. Out of some kind of misplaced sense of duty you think you're still bound to protect the former royal family. Oh, this is good.” Grimaud laughed. “When I've got rid of you I can turn to Louis and ask for a ransom for his son.” Grimaud quickly turned his head to address Anne. “Does he know? That the child is his heir of old? Rochefort would've loved this, it never occurred to him the child you have with your husband could be of such importance to so many people.”

Aramis stared at Anne, willing her to look at him and read the message in his eyes, but Anne barely glanced at him.

“Louis will not pay anything for Henri, because Henri means nothing to him. He's my child and nothing more. Let him go, you promised me you'd not harm him.”

Grimaud slowly shook his head, chuckling to himself. “You love her, that's obvious, that's why it makes it even more amusing that you'll watch her die before I'll make you suffer everything I had to go through. You've no idea how much pain and torture I had to bear because of you and your friends. And when I'm done with you two, I'll think about what to do with the child.”

“No! Please!” Anne shouted.

At the same time, Aramis took a step towards Grimaud. “Don't you dare --” Aramis growled.

Without warning Grimaud raised his arm and fired the gun he had kept in his hand all the time. The shot hit Aramis in the right shoulder. “No! You just shut up! I'm done with talking. You don't have a say in the matter!”

The force of the impact threw Aramis back and he stumbled to keep his balance.

Anne cried, “Aramis!” She stared at him with wide eyes, rooted to the spot. A few seconds later she shook off her stupor and took a step towards Aramis.

“Stay,” Grimaud barked, pointing the gun at Anne's face. “You stay exactly where you are. If you move one step further towards him, I'll shoot you right in your pretty face.” With the gun in his hand still pointing at Anne, he turned to Aramis. “You think you're invulnerable, but you're not. You escaped me once, but not today. Today you'll pay. From own experiences I know it will take a few minutes until the adrenaline wears off and the pain sets in, and I'm willing to wait until then, so you can fully enjoy your executions.” He motioned to one of his men, beckoning him to grab Anne and push her down on a chair. “But first, I want answers. You know what I want. And before you answer, bear in mind that I still have the child.”

The man behind Aramis had moved around and was now standing beside Aramis, pointing a gun at him.

Aramis briefly closed his eyes, trying to slow down his breathing. He felt no real pain yet but he heard himself panting for breath, a normal reaction to the shock the bullet wound had caused. Once the adrenalin eased off his body would start reacting. What felt like a hot nail sticking in his shoulder would turn into throbbing pain, and his heart would start pumping more blood through his body to compensate for the loss. If he was lucky the bullet had gone through without shattering bones, and left the shoulder at the back, the friction's heat probably sufficient to seal most of the affected blood vessels. If this was the case it would keep him mobile for a while longer. He opened his eyes and took a look at his shoulder. There was not much blood on the front. A good sign. His gaze swept to Anne.

Aramis could see that she was just a shred away from a breakdown, and the man with a knife in his hand behind her chair definitely wasn’t defusing the situation. Aramis' thoughts were somersaulting, he knew if he didn't come up with a plan very quickly the situation would spiral rapidly out of control. The hot nail in his shoulder slowly turned into a balloon, increasing every minute and sending spikes of pain through his body. His right arm was dangling uselessly at his side and he could feel blood dripping from his fingers.

Suddenly, a deafening bang accompanied by a blinding flash of light shook the room, the shock wave causing the old building to moan and croak. The door to the hallway came off its hinges, crashing to the floor and Grimaud, who had been standing closest to the door, was thrown off his feet.

Aramis took a fraction of a second to understand that someone – and he really hoped it was Athos – had thrown a stun grenade. He threw himself towards where he had last seen the man with the knife standing behind Anne. Still dazzled by the light, he bumped headfirst into someone, bringing the person down with him. When they both crashed to the floor, Aramis on top of the man, he felt one of his ribs crack just before his right shoulder exploded into a sea of pain. He cried out in agony, momentarily immobilised by waves of pain. Through the ringing in his ears he could hear Anne screaming something unintelligible and Porthos shouting his name. Ignoring his bruised ribcage and useless right arm, he immediately tried to get back on his feet, using the back of the chair to pull himself up. He felt Anne's hands around his waist, trying to heave him up, and was thankful for the support. 

The man beneath him rolled on his side to come up again. Aramis kicked him hard in the side of his head, making him buckle. Hearing turmoil on the other side of the room and Porthos calling out for him again, he turned his head. 

“I'm okay,” he shouted. Before he could say more, a shot rang through the room. He looked around in time to see Athos being swept from his feet, flailing about before crushing to the floor. His pistol was whipped from his hand, sliding over the floor.

Grimaud, still lying on the floor where he had been thrown by the blast of the grenade, had fired his weapon and was aiming at Porthos now.

Porthos, engaged in a melee with one of Grimaud's helpers, ducked, using his opponent as a shield. Struggling to keep the man under control, he tried to disarm him without getting in Grimaud's line of fire.

Athos quickly recovered and grabbed his weapon again. Without aiming, he swung his arm around, firing at Grimaud.

With a cry of pain, Grimaud dropped the gun, a bloody spot where moments before the weapon had been.

Aramis grabbed Anne with his left hand, roughly pushing her towards the far end of the room, opposite the door where Grimaud was. “Go,” he urged, glancing over his shoulder to where Athos and Porthos were trying to fight off more men now entering the room. In passing, he planted another hard kick to the man he had brought down, making sure his opponent stayed unconscious. Aramis had detected another door opposite to where he had entered the room, and since the entrance was blocked by more of Grimaud's helpers coming in, this seemed to be the only chance to get Anne into safety. He tore open the door, quickly checking the room before him. It was empty apart from a single bed and a chair, it's window opening to the side of the house. Pushing Anne inside the room, he said, “Close the door and move the bed in front of it. Then check the terrain, if there's no one outside climb out of the window and run. Keep to the wall and turn left when you've reached the driveway. As soon as you're on Rue de l'Horizon ask someone for a phone and call the police.”

“No! What about Henri?” Anne grabbed Aramis' arm, stopping him from closing the door. “I won’t go without him.”

“I'll find him. Go now, quickly.” Aramis pulled the door shut.

Anne's arm shot out, preventing the door from closing completely and instead pushing it open again. “You're injured, you can't go back in there,” she said with panic in her voice. “And we must find Henri!”

“I'll be all right, just go,” Aramis said, briefly stroking her cheek with the back of his left hand. “Hide as long as necessary, only go out when you're absolutely sure no one will see you. Or if someone tries to get in here.” He pulled the door shut and turned to face the turmoil.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Porthos, holding off two attackers with bare hands, was hit on the head by a third man who had managed to approach the big man from the rear. Porthos stumbled forward, losing his hold on one of his attackers. 

Athos was on his knees, struggling with Grimaud for the gun the villain had lost through Athos' shot. The floor beneath Athos was smeared with blood and behind the injured Musketeer another man appeared in the doorway, alarmed by the grenade's detonation. Apparently, they had miscalculated the situation; there seemed to be much more men with Grimaud than they had presumed from their observation.

However, Aramis couldn't see d'Artagnan. He hoped the youngster was once more the one tasked with keeping his son hidden and bringing him to safety. Aramis let out a cry of fury, fuelled not only by rage but by the fire eating its way through his right shoulder, arm and side. With two quick strides he was by the chair, picking it up and dashing it towards the man in the door who was aiming a gun at Athos. The man raised his arms in defence, pulling the trigger in his motion. The shot missed Athos by inches, hitting the floor not far away from him.

Frantically swivelling around, Aramis tried to find something he could use as a weapon. Seeing a dagger on the floor to his left, he bent to pick it up. However, he missed seeing the man he had kicked earlier rise behind him. Completely caught off guard by the blow to his side, he fell down hard on the floor, almost blacking out when the bruised ribs sent shockwaves of pain through his body. He rolled around in time to bring his intact arm up and parried the next blow, thereby gaining time to bring up his legs and kick his opponent into the chest. The man stumbled back, flailing to get a hold somewhere. Aramis groped for the knife and finally got hold of if just when the man launched himself on Aramis again. His arm shot up, the knife meeting the man's shoulder blade in time to break the force of the blow, the momentum driving the blade deep into the flesh. It didn't stop the man from crashing onto Aramis' right side, though, and Aramis once again couldn't hold back screams of pain. Fighting back the nausea, he headbutted the other, thus succeeding in partly removing the body off of him. With a smacking sound he yanked the dagger from the other's shoulder, hurling it with a quick twist of the wrist at one of Porthos' attackers. He watched the dagger find its goal, sinking itself deep into the flesh between the man's shoulder blade and spine. The man froze long enough for Porthos to be able to plant a fist into his face, and the attacker keeled over without further resistance.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

As ordered, d'Artagnan had waited and hid under the stairway, counting to thirty after he had heard the grenade's detonation. Reaching thirty-one he had cautiously stuck out his head and looked up and down the dim hallway. An abnormally high number of men had passed d'Artagnan's hiding place, rushing towards the sound of detonation. They had completely misjudged the number of men they had watched and counted earlier and presumed to be in the house with Grimaud. It couldn't be helped now; all they could do was somehow try to come out of here alive. He prayed his brothers would be alright in there without him, he had another task to fulfil. Half crouching, he crept along the hallway, away from the sound of fighting, until he reached a stairway. Deciding to try his luck there, he started climbing up. When he heard the sound of talking and a TV playing from the far side of the upstairs hallway on the second floor, he knew he was right. Pistol in his left hand and dagger in his right, he tiptoed to the rearmost door on the right, stopping half a metre before it. Listening to the variety of sounds from inside, he tried to make out how many people were in there. When he heard the high-pitched tone of a kid's voice, he knew he had found what they were looking for. He briefly closed his eyes to collect himself, taking a couple of deep breaths. Then he kicked in the door, pistol raised high in front of him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Athos cursed internally for having been forced to start this undertaking so unprepared after Anne's sudden appearance on the scene and Aramis' rash action. They hadn't had time to elaborate plans and totally miscalculated the number of enemies they faced now. They had reckoned with four or maybe five men being with Grimaud and maybe one or two more with Henri, but now it seemed an endless stream of new attackers kept seeping through the door. 

Socking Grimaud on the jaw, Athos tried to get to his feet again, imperative if he wanted to stay alive, but the shot wound in his upper thigh wasn't making it an easy undertaking. He was hit by a boot kicking his side, causing him to crash to the floor again. Tightening his grip on the pistol, he shot blindly towards where the kick had come from, the ensuing cry of pain and thumb of something heavy falling onto the floor assuring him that he had at least hit. Quickly gazing around, he saw Porthos fighting off three attackers and Aramis entering the fray by wielding something club-like, his sweat-covered face a mask of fury and pain. He spotted an abandoned handgun on the floor and noted with a feeling of relief that Aramis had spotted it, too, picking it up on his way towards Porthos. Athos turned away and lunged at Grimaud again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

D'Artagnan, who had been raised, admittedly, not on a country estate but a farm, knew that attics on a big estate were often good places to hide, especially because they usually had more than one access and often more than one level. Roof hatches made it possible to reach the roof and the next close building. From what he had seen outside and on the plan of site, this estate had several houses and barns close by and it was possible to jump from one roof to the other, at least from this building where the dormer protruded unusually far. It was the attic where he was heading now with Henri, further away from the fight that was going on downstairs, away from Grimaud's men who would soon remember that there was a hostage they had been tasked to guard. D'Artagnan couldn't depend on his brothers being victorious against the superior forces they had to face. 

It took him far more time than he had estimated to enter the attic via an old, small, retractable wooden ladder with Henri in his arms. He had just found a half-decent hiding place he was taking into consideration when a second detonation, similar to the first, shook the old house. He hugged Henri tighter and made his decision.

The hiding place was almost too small for the two of them, but maybe that was an advantage. At a first glance, no one would suppose someone was hiding there, and he had a good view to the hatchway he had come up through. He could shoot everyone coming up through the trapdoor as soon as the person's head popped up. He put a finger to his lips, hoping Henri would understand how important it was to keep quiet now. 

D'Artagnan knew it was not the best hiding place, but it couldn't be helped, he could already hear movement beneath them. People were coming up from the ground floor, maybe even already up to the second floor. Moving further along the attic would only draw attention to them, so it was most important that they kept as quiet as possible until the threat was either over or until they were detected. Once he could be sure that no one was in the floor beneath them any more, he would try to reach the next building via the roof hatch.

Henri lay beside him, staring wide-eyed at d'Artagnan, and he was not sure how much longer the little boy would stay silent. Obviously, Henri was afraid. D'Artagnan stroked the boy's cheek and hoped this would soothe him a little. The situation was so very déjà vu that d'Artagnan feared he might go crazy and start laughing uncontrollably if this went on for much longer. He bit his lips and rubbed his shoulder, the one where hundreds of years ago a blade had run through in a similar situation, when he had tried to hide the Dauphin from Grimaud's men. He could almost feel the pain from long ago and the sweat on his face from the washhouse's steam.

With his eyes fixed on the trapdoor in the floor he prayed that whoever was on the floor beneath wouldn't find the telltale tracks that someone had used the concertina stair up to the attic not so long ago.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

A man taller than Aramis by a head jumped at him and dashed him to the ground. The moment he hit the ground an explosion of pain flooded his body, robbing him of his hearing ability, as well as his sight. Deaf and blind for a moment, he had only the pain he could perceive, an experience he could well have done without. Forcing himself to take deep and long breaths to regain control over his body, he worked out that through the ringing in his ears he could hear voices, and whatever it was that had blinded him started wearing off. He focused on what looked like shadows moving behind frosted glass until the shadows turned into men, dressed in black, complete with balaclavas, helmets, bulletproof vests and automatic rifles. He didn't understand what they were shouting, but he realised that it had not been the dashing to the ground that had blinded and deafened him, but the detonation of a stun grenade, like the one Athos had used. He let his head sink down to the floor with relief when he finally caught a glimpse of the letters printed on the black uniforms. It read BRI, short for _Brigades de Recherche et d'Intervention_ , the French National Police's unit that specialised in serious criminal cases such as armed robbery and kidnappings that had come to their aid. 

Unwittingly, he must have closed his eyes, because when he felt someone touch his neck in search for a pulse, he needed to open them to see who it was, finding a hooded man kneeling beside him.

“Stay where you are, help is on its way,” the man said. 

“Where is Henri?” Aramis asked. Now that his sight was back and the noise in his ears had lessened further, he could make out more details. Continuously there was shouting through the house when men from the special forces unit signalled that a section or room was safe. There were six or seven armed policemen in the room with them, keeping Grimaud's men in check. Porthos leaned at the far wall, bent forward, and there was blood tripping from a cut on his arm. “Where is Henri?” he asked again, and this time the man who had checked on him turned.

“I don't know, but we'll soon find him. Don't worry.”

“Can you help me up?” Aramis asked, feeling like a beetle lying helplessly on his back. A beetle in a great deal of pain.

“Just stay on the floor until the paramedics are allowed in,” the man replied, making no move to help him up. “To me, you don't look well.”

Before Aramis could make a rude remark about being denied help, another wave of pain rolled through his body, blurring his vision. Soon he had forgotten why he’d wanted to argue with the policeman about helping him up; his sole concern was breathing as shallowly as possible to keep the pain in his ribcage at bay. When his vision cleared again, Porthos had appeared at his side, bending down to take a closer look at him.

“Are you okay?” Porthos asked, his brow furrowed with worry.

“I will,” Aramis hissed, grabbing Porthos' upper arm with his left hand. “Just get me on my feet. Where is Athos?”

Ignoring Aramis' plea to help him up, Porthos looked around. “I don't know, last I saw of him he was with Grimaud.” Turning his head back and forth nervously, he muttered, “And where the hell is Grimaud? Where have they gone?” When his gaze returned to his injured friend, he realised that Aramis had passed out.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When he heard the hatch creak and saw the ladder being hinged down, d'Artagnan silently cursed. It seemed whoever was coming after him and Henri had spotted that the steps had been used just a short while ago. He shifted his weight so that he could still keep Henri pressed closely to his left side and simultaneously had more room to move his right arm which held the gun. He aimed at the space above the open hatchway and cursed again when he saw that his hand was trembling slightly. “Come on,” he said quietly to himself. 

When the first head appeared just above floor level d'Artagnan tightened his grip on the gun, gently squeezing the trigger. A millimetre more and the gun would fire, but he needed to make sure that whoever it was who came through the trapdoor was eliminated with the first shot. Anything less than a bull’s eye was not an option. When the head was halfway through, more light flooded in from somewhere below, confusing d'Artagnan. Something was wrong, and it took him a moment to sort out what it was. When he realised that whoever was coming up was wearing a dark helmet, the man was already crouching on the floor, a second man following up the ladder.

Briefly, d'Artagnan was blinded when strong light from a torch hit his hiding place, and for a split second he considered shooting wildly at whoever had come up. When the light moved on and his eyes adjusted to the dimness again he almost cried out in relief when he was able to read the three letters that were printed on the front of the helmets the men wore. _**BRI.**_

“I'm hiding here with the boy,” he shouted. “I'm coming out now. Henri is with me, don't shoot, I'm not armed. My name's d'Artagnan.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“How long have I been out?” Aramis asked, staring up at Porthos. “We need to find Athos and we need to find Henri!” 

“It's only been a minute or two, but long enough to give me the creeps. In any case, before we start looking for either of them, you need to see a doctor,” Porthos replied. Nodding towards the policemen, he added, “And I doubt they would let us anyway.”

Retancourt stepped into the room, quickly scanning the scene before her and hurrying over to them. “Are you okay?” she asked, eyeing Aramis' blood-soaked clothes and Porthos' cuts on the forehead and arm. She didn't wait for an answer, however. Instead, she started shouting. “Are you completely out of your mind? What did you think you're doing? Do you think you can do our job better than us? Or do you just like creating bloodbaths, putting everyone into danger along with it? Have you ever thought about that literally everything can go wrong if amateurs like you try to defuse a hostage-taking on their own? This will have consequences!” Her lecture went on and on.

Aramis and Porthos quickly glanced at each other. Retancourt must have learned from Tréville how to give a proper dressing-down, she was in no way inferior to their captain when it came to putting subordinates in their place.

Enduring the rant like a good Musketeer, Aramis gulped a couple of times.

Porthos almost looked embarrassed.

Finally, she finished shouting at them and took a deep breath before ending the address in a more conciliatory tone. “You should let the paramedics treat you, you look awful. They must be outside by now. Go and see them.”

“Where is Henri?” Aramis asked again. “And where are Athos and Grimaud? They were here just a moment ago, just before your men stormed in with a bang.”

“I can't say, but we've not searched the whole property yet. Currently the special forces are searching the estate systematically.”

“Where is Anne?” Aramis panted, speaking becoming more and more difficult. “I never thought you could be here so quickly. She couldn't have been gone for more than fifteen minutes. Unless I've lost my sense of time,” he murmured, turning to Porthos with a questioning look.

“She didn't call us, we were already on our way and picked her up at the access to the field road. She is waiting outside in one of the cars.”

“What do you mean she didn't call you? Who else called for back-up then?” said Aramis.

“Athos,” Porthos replied instead of Retancourt. “Before we followed you to get your sorry ass out of trouble Athos called for back-up. Just in case things got out of control, what they eventually did. And let me tell you now, he's really pissed off with you.”

“I know,” Aramis muttered. 

“Get yourself treated by the paramedics,” Retancourt ordered again. “Now. I'll join you later.” She turned and made her way to the door. Just when she was about to leave one of the BRI team members appeared in the doorframe. They exchanged a few words, Retancourt pointing towards the two Musketeers. The policeman nodded and Retancourt left, making way for someone else who entered now, with eyes searching the room for someone specific. When his eyes had found their aim, he grinned.

“D'Artagnan!” Porthos called. “He's got Henri,” he added for the benefit of Aramis who had closed his eyes again the moment Retancourt had left them. 

D'Artagnan took a step forward, hesitating when he saw the condition Porthos and especially Aramis were in. He made a movement with his head, signalling to Porthos to join him outside the room.

“I'll just go and check on d'Artagnan and Henri. I don't think it's a good idea to let Henri see you like this,” Porthos said, looking at Aramis with a worried expression on his face. “I'll be right back and then we'll get you treated by the paramedics.”

“Just tell me that he's safe,” Aramis mumbled. “Be quick.”

It was not Porthos but d'Artagnan who returned to Aramis a minute later. Lightly touching the uninjured shoulder to get Aramis' attention, d'Artagnan said, “Everything's all right. Henri is scared, but he's not injured. He's okay. Porthos is taking him outside to his _maman._ ”

Grabbing d'Artagnan's lower arm, Aramis whispered, “Thank you. You can't imagine what this means to me.”

“Relax. Everything's okay," d'Artagnan said, patting Aramis' hand. "So, where's Athos? Porthos says he's gone missing?”

“I don't know, he was there just a moment before the special forces team came rushing in. Next I looked, both Athos and Grimaud had disappeared. Let's get outside, maybe he is there or at least someone there knows where he is.”

“You, my friend, will go nowhere,” d'Artagnan replied softly. “We'll wait until the paramedics bring a stretcher for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The attentive reader will have noticed that there's an inconsistency in this chapter in regard to the Musketeers' former lives. In the universe I created they die on the battlefield in Rocroi on May 19, 1643, five days after Louis' death and five days after the Dauphin was declared King on May 14, 1643. Thus, in this 'verse, the Inseparables were not in Paris when Louis XIII died and Gaston tried to seize power by abducting the young King, Louis XIV. For reasons of simplification – and because I can bend history, canon and verse as much as I want – let's just assume that Gaston, _possibly_ with the aid of the Duke of Lorraine, _possibly_ with the aid of Grimaud **and** _possibly_ with the aid of his mother, Marie de' Medici, tried to seize power a few weeks before Louis died. After all, the King was already very sick by then and his passing was foreseeable. Ergo, in this verse said kidnapping took place when Louis was still alive and the Musketeers were – _quelle chance!_ \- coincidentally just then in Paris to take care of Gaston's attempt to usurp the throne. Naturally, Tréville didn't die during the fight for little Louis and they all returned to the front again once the Dauphin was safe and back with his _maman_ and papa at the Louvre.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a moment of uneasy silence before Retancourt added formally, “We also found blood from your friend, Monsieur d'Autevielle, at the entrance as well as along the passage.”

Anne and Henri, who was not hurt in any way but tired and a bit confused, were brought back home accompanied by two police officers. A round the clock guard had been ordered by Danglard until further notice.

Aramis had been reluctant to let them go. Struggling to stay upright and not let Henri see how injured he was, he had kissed Anne and Henri good-bye and urged the escorting police officers to keep their eyes glued to them. Eventually he had lain down on the stretcher again and allowed the paramedics to treat his wounds.

Currently, a heated discussion was going on between the paramedics and Aramis and Porthos, including some shouting on Aramis' part and some uttered menaces from Porthos. The discussion was finally cut off by Retancourt who joined them, wordlessly holding out her mobile to Aramis.

After a moment's hesitation Aramis grabbed the mobile and put it to his ear. “Yes?”

“You and Porthos let the paramedics bring you to the hospital this instant and you let yourself be treated there without further discussions. D'Artagnan will go with you and report to me as soon as he has a first medical report of both of you. This is an order, are we clear?” When Aramis failed to reply immediately, Tréville barked, “Is that clear?”

“Yes, but,” Aramis said, being interrupted instantly.

“There's no but about it! If I don't get the confirmation that you're on your way to the hospital within the next ten minutes I'm going to give you such a kick up the backside you won't be able to sit for a year! And believe me, it will be a simple task after the way you’ve messed things up with such panache. Are we clear now?” Tréville's voice probably wasn't as firm as usually, weakened by his current health condition, but it had lost nothing of its authority.

“Yes,” Aramis replied sheepishly.

“Now give me Porthos!”

Aramis held out the mobile to Porthos. “It's the captain, errm, the commissioner for you,” he said with a sidelong glance to Retancourt.

Porthos took the mobile, silently listening for a while, then he said a couple of times “Aye” and “Right” and finally handed the mobile back to Retancourt, who pocketed it, smirking at the paramedics.

“Messieurs, I'll let you know when we have an indication of where Grimaud and Monsieur d'Autevielle might be. Get well,” she said and left them.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When both Aramis and Porthos had finally been patched up and dosed with medication, it was way past midnight. The senior chief physician on duty had ordered that they stayed at least one night under medical observation and had been unyielding in the ensuing discussion. It was only due to Porthos' concussion and Aramis being in a great deal of pain that they finally agreed, both now lying in their hospital beds. 

Despite his argumentation that he was okay, Aramis had dozed off and was woken up by d'Artagnan.

“I'm just back from Tréville, he's still angry about how the whole thing was handled, but I think in the end he's just relieved that Henri is well and back home so quickly. Retancourt will be with us in a minute or two.”

“Did they find Athos and Grimaud?” Porthos asked.

“She didn't tell me anything, only said she'd be with us shortly. I didn't have the impression she has good news, though,” d'Artagnan added worriedly. “How are you?”

“Give me a couple hours more and I'm as good as new,” Porthos answered, gazing to Aramis in the bed beside him. “Which is more than you can say for him. It's a good thing the doctor ordered that you stay in bed.”

“It's nothing,” replied Aramis. “I just need some good, strong painkillers and I'm fighting fit again. I can cure my injuries when we've caught Grimaud.” He hissed when he tried to sit up in the bed, abandoning the effort a moment later. “D'Artagnan, come here and help me up. I bet the nurse did it on purpose, removing the hoist from my bed. Why does Porthos have one?” he asked reproachfully.

“Because…” Porthos started but fell silent when after a short knock Retancourt entered.

She first looked Porthos over, then Aramis, but didn't comment on the condition of their health. “We've finished searching the area. We found some interesting things like explosives, ignition devices, chemicals etc, but neither Grimaud nor your friend. However, we found a trace leading to a room under the main building.”

“It's an old wine cellar without external access. At least that's what the plans say,” d'Artagnan confirmed.

“Yes, only that it's not a wine cellar, or rather not used as one any more. It was stuffed full of boxes whose content we're still examining, but what's more important is, there was a secret door, leading to a small, narrow passage. It's an old tunnel, definitely nothing Grimaud could have ordered to construct, but apparently he knew of its existence. We found traces of blood at the entry and further along the tunnel.”

“Grimaud's blood?” d'Artagnan asked.

“Yes, but not only his.”

There was a moment of uneasy silence before Retancourt added formally, “We also found blood from your friend, Monsieur d'Autevielle, at the entrance as well as along the passage.”

“How did you get a comparison sample for his blood? How can you be sure it's his and not someone else's?” Aramis asked.

“He was in the military, their DNA is in the system,” Porthos answered automatically. “It's standard procedure for soldiers.”

Retancourt nodded. “It was a quick evaluation since both men's DNA is system-resident. The traces and footprints we found indicate that both men went along there together, not one delayed in time to the other. Based on the footprints and the blood, we believe that at least one man is moderately severely injured and that one was dragged along by force.” She looked from one to the other. “That's the situation we have at the moment. Do you have any assessment who of the two was injured more badly and might have been taken prisoner?”

“I have no idea,” Porthos remarked quietly. “But what reason would Athos have had to drag Grimaud along to the end of the corridor and not bring him back? He had no reason to try to escape with him, he knew the BRI team was on its way for back-up.”

“Well, let's face the truth then. Athos is in the hands of Grimaud and it's all my fault,” Aramis said bleakly.

“No, it's not,” Porthos said sharply. “And it's not sure if Athos is the one who’s been captured. He might have had his reasons not to return to the house with Grimaud. Where did the tunnel lead to?” he asked Retancourt.

“There's an old, near-derelict chapel about a kilometre away from the estate at the edge of the copse. The passage ends there, outside the chapel, closed by a grid. At first sight, it looks like an old well shaft, which was probably the intention in the first place. We also found fresh tyre tracks there.“

“Of course he knew of this passage. Philippe must have had it constructed and Grimaud had used it to slip in and out of the mansion as it pleased him,” Aramis said.

“Pardon me?” Retancourt asked. “What are you talking about? Who is Philippe?”

Porthos stopped further questioning with a wave of his hand. “Philippe Feron, someone he has a connection to and the Spanish police have been searching for since over a year. Needn’t concern you at the moment. More importantly now, what are we going to do?”

“ _You_ are going to do nothing, leave it to the police for once, it's our job. And everything relating to this matter _is_ my concern, so who exactly is this Philippe Feron?”

“Again, we're knee deep in shit, aren't we?” Aramis remarked, ignoring Retancourt. “How come every single time we have to deal with Grimaud he comes down on us like a ton of bricks?” He rubbed a hand over his face. “We need to find Athos before it's too late. But where do we start? The estate in Arceuil was our best guess.”

“The question is, what does he want? Henri was the bait. Now maybe Athos is the bait, which means he will let him live at least long enough to use him against us. He might contact us and tell us where they are, I don't think he wants to wait forever until we finally guess where he's hiding now,” Porthos said, equally ignoring Retancourt. “Plus, he's injured and might need medical help. He's running out of time.”

“Yeah, but only if Athos is not running out of time before him. You said he was shot!” d'Artagnan remarked worriedly. “What about medical help for Athos?”

Porthos quickly glanced at Aramis, sharing an apprehensive look with him. “I doubt Grimaud will care about that.”

Aramis changed his position on the bed, sharply inhaling during the movement. “Wait. I think Grimaud didn't expect us to find out on our own where he's hiding. He called Anne and gave her the address. I don't know what exactly he said to her or threatened her with, but he must've trusted that she would believe him and come alone, with us secretly trailing her. Or that she wouldn't believe him and tell us and we would blindly take the bait anyway. He didn't know we already knew where he was. Henri was the bait for Anne, and Anne had been planned as the bait for us. Grimaud wasn't surprised when I showed up so shortly after Anne, he presumed I had followed Anne when she went to the house. Maybe Grimaud doesn't expect us to find him, he'll set up another trap for us by using Athos and then ask us to walk right into it. Wouldn't be the first time,” Aramis muttered.

“But are we willing to wait until he contacts us? What if it's too late for Athos then?” d'Artagnan said with a desperate undertone. “We need to find them as quickly as possible!”

“There was something else Grimaud said when I went in. He said something about how he wanted answers and I would know what he means.” Aramis scratched his chin with his left hand. He hadn't shaved in over a day, and the dark shadow now on his pale skin made him look even more worn out. “But I've no idea what he meant.” He looked from Porthos to Retancourt to d'Artagnan. “Last year he wanted to know what we did with Rochefort's key. Do you think he's still after it?”

Retancourt harrumphed. “That's all very interesting, but like I said before, leave it to us. You’ve already screwed things up, don't make it worse. I'm happy to hear any suggestions you have, any information where we might find Monsieur Grimaud and your friend, anything that will help us. But you will in no way take action. You hear?”

“Yes, ma'am,” they said in unison, and their contrite expressions almost looked genuine.

Apparently, they convinced Retancourt of their good intentions. “Get some sleep. I'll keep you informed when there's something new, otherwise I'll see you in the morning.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Can Constance bring us something to wear?” Aramis asked as soon as Retancourt had left the room. 

“Now?” D'Artagnan said, eyeing his wrist-watch.

“What time is it anyway?” Porthos wanted to know.

“It's a quarter to two,” d'Artagnan answered.

“She won't be in bed by now, right? I hope she's still with Anne. Call her; Anne can give her spare clothes for me and she also has a key to Porthos' flat. Constance can bring him whatever she thinks suitable, there isn't a wide range of clothing in Porthos' flat anyway. I presume you don't want to leave the hospital in your bloody shirt and jacket?” Aramis added with a sideways glance towards Porthos.

D'Artagnan sighed, accepting his fate and dialled Constance's number.

“If she's still with Anne, ask her if I can talk to Anne. Where after all is my mobile? Didn't the police find it?” Aramis asked.

Constance almost immediately answered the call, and d'Artagnan delivered the message he had been charged with. Finally, he handed over his mobile to Aramis.

Aramis and Anne talked for a while, reassuring one another that they were okay. Aramis gave his word that he would look after himself, healthwise as well as with regard to possible, new dangerous situations, and he promised to be home soon. Then he ended the call.

“It will be a while before Constance can be here, we should use the time to consider how we can help Athos,” d'Artagnan said, making himself comfortable in the single chair that stood by the small table

“The question is, how Grimaud intents to contact us. I'm not sure if he has our mobile numbers, and Aramis has obviously lost his. If he tries to reach us at the office, it will mean he won't call for a couple of hours. Precious time that is lost.” Porthos slowly stretched out on the bed, making sure he didn't move his head too fast.

“I wonder what Retancourt is doing at the moment? Somehow I have the feeling the police are not very proactive with regard to finding Athos,” d'Artagnan said sullenly.

“Don't be so critical of her,” Aramis said, also making himself comfortable on his bed. “I'm convinced they're doing everything they can at the moment. After all, they’re not only searching for Athos but also for Grimaud. For the police, Grimaud is a wanted person, involved in the murder of at least one police officer. They will put a lot of effort into finding him.” While talking, Aramis had started to slur with exhaustion. “Won't stop us from searching for him on our own, though.”

The hushed conversation went on for some time, until everyone had fallen asleep, despite their intention to stay awake and leave the hospital as soon as possible.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

D'Artagnan woke to someone softly calling his name and shaking his arm. He opened his eyes and found Constance looking down at him. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to fall asleep. What time is it?”

“It's almost six. You should go on and sleep for another couple of hours, I just wanted to bring by the clothes and let you know that there is still no news about Athos or Grimaud. I called Brujon a few minutes ago.”

D'Artagnan quickly glanced over to the beds of Porthos and Aramis. Both men were fast asleep. “They will kill me if I don't wake them up now, but I think they both desperately need to rest a little longer. What took you so long bringing the clothes?”

Constance glowered at d'Artagnan. “Apart from the fact that I also needed a little bit of sleep and had to drive to Porthos' flat to get his clothing, Anne and I thought it would be best to let a few hours lapse to allow you all to get some sleep and time to recover.”

“This is about Athos,” d'Artagnan replied heatedly, barely able to keep his voice soft. “We don't have time to waste sleeping.”

“This is not about wasting time. It's about giving Aramis and Porthos some much needed time to recover. Aramis was shot and Porthos has a concussion,” Constance whispered, equally straining to keep her voice low. “They can only be of use for Athos when they are in better health. It won't be long until the nurses start with their morning round, maybe you can ask them to have mercy and let the two sleep a little longer. I'm sure as soon as they are awake they'll hop out of bed and run out of the hospital.”

“I really feel bad about not waking them up,” d'Artagnan replied in a hushed voice. “However much they need to rest, Athos needs us, too.”

“Stop that whispering and hand me over my clothes,” Porthos said, interrupting the hushed conversation. “And, Constance, can you try to get some painkillers from a nurse? My head is killing me.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“What are you doing?” the nurse asked, balancing a tray with pill boxes and cups of tea in her hands. 

“Well, I thought it would be obvious. We're leaving,” Aramis said charmingly.

“But you haven't been released from hospital yet!”

“Wrong. We've just released ourselves,” Porthos replied, doing up the last button on his shirt.

“That's not how it works. Wait here, I'll get the doctor. Neither of you is in a state to walk out of here.”

“Nurse, you can get the doctor if you like, but we'll be leaving this hospital in about five minutes, with or without a discharge note. If you have some pain killers you can give us on our way, we'd appreciate it. If not, we'll have to cope. It's all the same to us,” said Aramis.

D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders apologetically, smiling at the nurse.

Setting down the tray on Porthos' bed table, the nurse huffed and rolled her eyes, leaving the room without further comment afterwards.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Outside the hospital, they made their way to the taxi rank. “Constance and I'll go to the office. We'll make sure that the phone is permanently manned, in the meantime I'll try to find a trace of Grimaud and Athos via the CCTV system. If they are not hiding somewhere in the close proximity to the estate, they must've left the area, either on foot or by car. I'm sure there are some cameras somewhere in the vicinity. I can also try to hack into the police's server for more information,” d'Artagnan added. 

“I'll go with you,” Porthos said.

Constance instantly replied, “No. You and Aramis can share a taxi, you both drive home. I promised Anne that Aramis would come home first thing after leaving the hospital. She needs to make sure you're all right. Besides, Henri has asked for you repeatedly. He needs to see for himself that you are okay. Later, you can join us at the office, if you feel fit enough for it. As for you,” Constance said, turning to Porthos. “Go home and get some more sleep. You look equally bad. Until either Grimaud gives us a call or d'Artagnan finds a trace, there's no need for you to be in the office. We'll let you know as soon as one thing or the other happens.”

Porthos glowered at Constance, ready to object.

“If you don't do it, I'll go and see Tréville and tell him that you discharged yourself from hospital against the doctor's advice and that you are uncooperative in every possible way,” Constance countered without batting an eye.

After glowering at Constance for a short while longer, Porthos finally yielded. “All right, but I’ll meet you at the office no later than noon. And woe betide you if you don't give me a call as soon as there’s any news about Athos!”

Together, Aramis and Porthos entered a taxi. Constance and d'Artagnan watched the car thread into the Parisian rush-hour traffic, then they got into another taxi, giving the driver the address of LaFère Security's office

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Athos came around slowly, greeted by the ever-present throbbing pain in his body. He had lost count of how many times he had passed out by now, and he had also lost count of how many hours – or days? – had passed since Grimaud had brought him here. 

Keeping his eyes closed for no other reason than the sake of simplicity, he once again pondered how in the world things could have gone so wrong. When he had run after Grimaud, just a moment before a stun grenade had detonated behind him, followed by the clatter of boots, he had been convinced that the worst was behind them. That it would take only a few minutes more until the special forces overwhelmed Grimaud and his men, and Henri was whisked to safety. He had chased Grimaud down a stairway to a cellar, packed to the ceiling with wooden crates and cardboard boxes. His eyes had needed a moment to adjust to the darkness and he had seen movement on the opposite wall where a door stood open. Blindly, he had stumbled into Grimaud's trap. Again. He was still astonished about how very well-prepared Grimaud had been. Not only had he managed to escape from the estate via a secret passage with Athos as his hostage, but there had also been a car waiting for him at the end of the tunnel. All Grimaud had to do then was knock Athos unconscious and drive away unhindered.

Athos had no idea where he was, only that it must be inside the city, if the noise that seeped through the closed windows was any indication. A door banged, and Athos knew he was due for another round of Grimaud's concept of interrogation. Internally steeling himself for the next round of torture, he opened his eyes, only to find that he was wrong. It was not Grimaud who had entered but one of his helpers.

The man who looked like the epitome of an Islamic terrorist, stood by the door. He had his assault rifle strapped over the shoulder, so he had his hands free to carry a bottle of water and some bandages. Wordlessly, he came closer and knelt in front of Athos. “I'm supposed to make you talk, but I can only torture he who is still alive,” he said in fluent but not accent-free French. “I'll bind your leg.”

Since Athos was bound to a chair and couldn't move, he could hardly do anything else than let it happen, watching the man treat his injured leg with a makeshift bandage. He wasn't sure what the man hoped to accomplish with his task; he had already lost a lot of blood and the bandage had come almost too late to be of any use, even though Athos had to admit it was better that nothing. The man worked with great care and made sure there was just enough pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding but not cut off the circulation in the leg. After finishing his task, the man rose, eyeing Athos.

Athos couldn't judge a reaction from the man. His face was mostly covered by a thick beard and a traditional turban, the rest hidden behind sunglasses. Athos saw a reflection of himself in the mirror glasses. He didn't look well. Grimaud's ruthless torturing methods, fuelled by blind hate, had left marks on him. Every fibre of his body seemed to scream with pain, bearing witness of the man's fathomless fury.

The man opened the bottle's screw top. “Here,” he said, holding the bottle to Athos' lips so he could drink.

Athos downed the cool liquid in one gulp. He hadn't realised how thirsty he was until the first drop of water had touched his gums. He didn't mind being bottle-fed like a baby, but he wondered why he was shown such an act of kindness. It was very unlike Grimaud. Did he believe he would succeed if he played a game of good cop, bad cop?

All too soon the bottle was empty and the man took a few steps back.

“Thank you,” Athos said by force of habit, belatedly becoming aware of how strange it was to thank his jailer. “What now?”

“Monsieur Grimaud wants answers.”

“Listen, I can't give him the answer he wants, because I've no idea where this damn key is. Maybe it's just another delusion stemming from Rochefort's sick mind. Maybe such a key never existed. You can torture me until I'm dead and he will still not get the answer he wants. Besides, I'm as good as dead anyway. This here is not about the key, or at least not solely about it. This is some score he wants to settle from a time long ago.”

“I have my orders.”

“We might as well skip the torture and you tell him that you tried your best but my answer is still that I’ve never heard of the key. Spares both of us time and energy.”

“That we could do,” the man replied, nodding lightly. “Or,” he added, pausing for a second or two, “I could torture you in a way you never knew was possible and see if I can't get another answer from you. I have my ways and means.”

A cold shower ran down Athos' spine. He just had known the kindness had served another purpose. This man was probably even more dangerous than Grimaud. Athos slowly shook his head. “I don't know where what Grimaud wants is. Go on then, if you must.”

The man stayed where he was, eyeing Athos up for a long while. “It's a lot of money we're talking about here. It's important that we get hold of it, no matter the cost.”

“What shall I tell you? I don't know where it is. The issue we had with Rochefort was personal, it had nothing to do with money. If he had money stashed away somewhere, we didn't know it.”

“He won't be satisfied with this, but I'll pass on what you said.” The man turned and left the room.

Athos didn't know what to think, but he was glad to get a short break from the next interrogation round. His thoughts drifted back to the others. He hoped Henri was safe and sound, unscathed by what had happened. Grimaud had not let slip any information about Aramis' son. As for the others, he hoped they had survived as well. He was sure d'Artagnan had been able to reach Henri and hide with him somewhere in the house. As for Porthos and Aramis, the last time he had glimpsed at them, they had been in desperate straits, and Aramis had not looked in a good state.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

After dropping Porthos off, Aramis asked the driver to take him to his home on Rue Vaugirard. Sinking exhausted into the seats, he closed his eyes for a moment, resting his head on the headrest. He was desperate to put his arms around Anne and Henri, wishing he would never have to let go again, but at the same time he was also desperate to find Athos before it was too late. He had seen the madness and desperation in Grimaud's eyes. This man had nothing to lose any more. 

The traffic came to a standstill shortly after they had passed the Palais du Luxembourg. When it became apparent that there wouldn't be progress anytime soon, Aramis decided to cover the rest of the distance on foot. He paid the driver and left the car. Ahead of him, he could already see emergency lights, and fire engines blocking the traffic on Rue Vaugirard. It seemed a major operation was going on and he complimented himself on his decision to leave the taxi. He switched to the other side of the street to avoid the crowd of people that had gathered to watch the operation and circumvented the accident scene in a wide arc. He turned up the collar of his coat against the cold wind swirling through the street.

After passing the scene, he crossed the street again, glancing back at the site of the accident when he heard sirens wailing. An ambulance pulled away from the scene, trying to make his way through the cars that blocked the street and the crowd of gawkers that moved only very slowly to make room for the ambulance. Cursing the ignorance of people, he almost collided with someone rushing out of a door just in front of him. Startled, Aramis jerked to a halt and looked up to the taller man.

It was hard to tell which of the two was more surprised, but it was definitely Philippe Feron who was quicker to recover. Within a second he had whipped out a knife from his coat pocket and flicked it open, ramming it deeply into Aramis' abdomen.

A startled gasp escaped Aramis' lips before he fell against the taller man's body.


	8. Chapter 8

The next time the door opened, it was Grimaud who entered the room.

Athos stared at him through weary eyes; he was endlessly tired and drained, and not sure for how much longer he could pull himself together. The constant pain in his body discomforted him, as well as the lack of sleep and loss of blood. He had mounting problems forming coherent thoughts and staying awake.

Grimaud glared at the bandage his fellow terrorist had put around Athos' leg. Without comment, he cut through the fabric with the small dagger he had used to torture Athos, unaffected by the fact that the blade cut through skin as well. He yanked the bandage away with his left hand, revealing the wound on Athos' thigh and then, without warning, he thrust the dagger right into the bullet hole.

Athos cried out in pain, unable to hold back the scream. Panting heavily, he growled, “You bastard.”

“Tell me where it is and I'll release you from your pain.”

“There. Is. No. Key,” Athos panted. “If there is, we have no knowledge of it. Why can't you grasp the fact? If there ever was a key to some deposit box full of money or shares, Rochefort either took it to the grave with him or hid it God only knows where.”

Grabbing Athos' hair, Grimaud yanked his head back brutally, forcing Athos to look up to him. “You've no idea what I had to suffer for that money. They want it back and I survived only because I made promises. Promises I need to keep,” Grimaud growled. “You'll die one way or the other. If you tell me, I'll end your life immediately and spare you a sea of pain. Your decision. And don't rely on rescue from outside. No one will come.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Coming around slowly, Aramis' first, dazed thought was that he had, embarrassingly, wet himself. He could feel something warm slowly running down his upper thighs and dropping from his crotch. A second later his confused mind registered the pain, and he remembered being stabbed, and that the warmth must be blood, not urine, slowly seeping out of his body. He groaned. 

A half-hearted slap to his face finally brought him round completely and he opened his eyes.

“Ah, there you are. Now, look at you, the great war hero,” Philippe Feron sneered at Aramis. “Where is your highly extolled greatness now?”

Aramis stared at Feron, trying to focus on the situation and gauge the other's plans, which was hard with the pain throbbing through his body and the haze that had settled in his mind.

Feron bent forward a little to come closer to Aramis' face. “I can still hear Tréville's eulogy about his great Musketeers who would keep Paris from descending in chaos. And what have you brought?” He straightened himself. “You only caused trouble. It was a good decision of him to finally send you back to war.” He rounded the chair Aramis was tightly bound to, saying, “Grimaud will be delighted.” Coming to a halt behind Aramis, Feron put a hand on Aramis' injured shoulder, and without warning he suddenly squeezed it hard.

Aramis groaned with pain, dark spots suddenly dancing before his eyes. For a short moment, the pain in his shoulder replaced the pain in his abdomen, though he was not sure which was worse. He waited until the feeling of nausea had passed. “Is there anything important you wanted to relate?” he hissed through gritted teeth.

Feron moved to the front of the chair again. With a nod towards Aramis' lower region, he said arrogantly, “You're ruining my floor. On the other hand, what else can one expect from a common soldier?”

Aramis closed his eyes. Breathing deeply, he tried to keep the pain under control. He was convinced he could literally feel the blood filling his lower abdomen, his belly bloating from all the blood inside, how the pressure on his lungs made it harder to breathe with every gasp for air. _A bad sign,_ he thought. By the time he realised Feron was still talking to him, he had missed most of what the former Governor of Paris had said.

“And therefore, as much as I love chatting with you about the good old days, it's about time to bring you to Grimaud. Your friend, I guess, will be delighted, if he's still with us.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The man who had treated Athos earlier slipped through the door, signalling for the other guard to leave. After he’d gone, the Arab took up position beside the door, just like every other guard had done before. “If you've something to say, now is the time,” the man said. “Grimaud has found leverage.” 

Athos thought he'd heard a touch of compassion in the other man's voice, though he had no idea why any of his guards should feel pity for Athos. Swallowing hard, he asked, “What leverage?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Constance answered the call on her mobile after checking the caller's number. “Hi Anne, what's up?” 

“Hi, I just wanted to know when you are going to leave the hospital,” Anne replied.

Constance frowned. “What do you mean? We left the hospital over two hours ago. Is Aramis not with you?”

After a moment's silence Anne asked, “What?”

“We left shortly after 8 am, I returned to the office with d'Artagnan, and Porthos and Aramis shared a taxi home. We agreed that d'Artagnan and I would start sifting through CCTV footage and man the reception here in case Grimaud calls, while Aramis would go home and Porthos would have a lie-down until he feels better.”

“But he's not here, he didn't come home. I thought you'd still be at the hospital.”

“No need to worry, give me a moment to clear a few things,” Constance said. “Maybe he stayed with Porthos, I'll check that. I'll call you back in a minute.” She ended the call and immediately dialled Porthos' mobile number. Other than Aramis, he had not lost his mobile during the operation to free Henri. She let it ring for a while before the call was answered by Porthos.

“Yeah?” he asked blearily.

“It's Constance. Is Aramis with you?”

“What? Aramis? No, why should he? He went home after they dropped me off.” When Constance failed to respond immediately, Porthos asked, “What's wrong?”

“Anne just called. Aramis never showed up. I thought maybe he stayed at your place or you two cooked up a plan or something and he went somewhere else.”

Porthos briefly remained silent, taking his time to stomach the news. “Damn, where could he be? He's not even fit enough to walk, let alone try anything on his own. Besides, he really wanted to see Anne and Henri, he wouldn't have gone anywhere without reporting home first. What a ...” Porthos let loose a stream of curses, suitable even to make Constance blush. “I'll be in the office in fifteen minutes,” he said finally and hung up.

D'Artagnan, who stood in the doorframe to his office listening to the last part of the conversation, said, pleadingly, “Don't say Aramis is missing. Please, don't say it.”

Constance let her hand holding the handset sink slowly, worriedly looking at d'Artagnan. “He is. Anne just called, asking when we were leaving the hospital.”

“Where for crying out loud could he have gone?” d'Artagnan asked, raking his fingers through his hair.

“I don't know. I need to call Anne back and tell her that he's not with Porthos. Maybe she has an idea where he could have gone instead.”

“I'll try to get hold of the taxi driver. I'm sure the taxi offices have some kind of logbook, I just need to find out which one serves the hospital. Is Porthos coming?”

“Yes, he said he'll be here in a quarter of an hour.”

“I'll need to see him as soon as he's here, maybe he remembers the name of the taxi driver, or his number.” D'Artagnan turned around, heading back to his computer where he abandoned his effort to find a trace of Athos and Grimaud and instead tried to get hold of CCTV footage from the street where Porthos lived and Aramis had last been seen. Simultaneously he searched on his tablet computer for the cab company that served the hospital.

Constance joined him a few minutes later. “Anne says there was a big accident on Rue Vaugirard a couple of hours ago, about the time when Aramis should have got home. Maybe the taxi was involved in the accident and Aramis has been brought to a hospital. Maybe he is injured, or he needs to be questioned as witness by the police. He hasn't got his mobile with him so he probably won't be able to call.” Apparently, Constance was clutching at every straw.

“Okay. You call all the hospitals and police stations in the area of the accident. See if Retancourt or Brujon can help you with it. I'll start with the cab company.”

When Porthos entered the office twelve minutes later, d'Artagnan had already talked to the taxi driver who had driven Porthos and Aramis. They knew now that Aramis had neither been injured during the incident on Rue Vaugirard nor driven elsewhere after they had dropped off Porthos. “He has paid the driver and left the car when the traffic had jammed, intending to walk the way home. We're talking about a distance of around 900 metres here, maybe even less. Somewhere between here and here,” d'Artagnan showed them the distance on the map on his computer screen, moving his finger from one point to another, “something must have happened causing him to change his plan and not return home.”

“Do you really think he willingly passed on the chance to see Anne and Henri?” Constance asked.

“No,” d'Artagnan replied lowly. “But that's better than having to deal with the alternative.”

“We must inform Retancourt that Aramis is missing. I don't believe he disappeared of his own free will,” Porthos said.

“Did you speak to her?” d'Artagnan asked, turning to Constance.

“Not yet, I spoke to Brujon. He checked whether there was something on Aramis in the police reports on the accident. I'll call her now.”

“Okay,” d'Artagnan replied. “I'll see if I can find Aramis leaving the taxi so we can see which direction he turned to, what happened after he left the car. I know for sure that there are surveillance cameras around the Palais du Luxembourg as well as further down the road at the museum. I'm sure I can find him on footage there, I just need to get access to their system.”

“Anne must be worried sick. First Henri, now Athos and Aramis. Will it never end?” Constance said softly.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“What leverage?” Athos asked again, gulping around the lump in his throat. For the first time since his capture, real fear gripped him to the marrow when the man still didn't respond. Was it some kind of tactic to leave him in the dark about what Grimaud would confront him with, or just another act of kindness from the Arab, who might be well aware that whatever it was Grimaud could use against Athos would finally break him? “I cannot give what I don't have,” Athos repeated hoarsely, desperately thinking about what or, more particularly, who it could be that Grimaud had in his hands now. 

The man stirred when there was noise outside the door, followed by a knock a moment later. He turned and opened the door, making room for two of Grimaud's helpers who hauled a man inside the room. The man hanging between the two helpers seemed to be unconscious, if the way his feet were dragging behind was any indication. His head, hanging down on his chest, rolled from side to side, and his clothes were soaked with blood.

“Aramis,” Athos gasped. “Aramis!” He started pulling at his bonds, the cable ties cutting deeper into his flesh. “What have you done to him?” he shouted once Grimaud had stepped through the door in the wake of his helpmates, accompanied by another man.

A chair was dragged over from the corner and Aramis was ruthlessly dumped on it. With the help of cable ties and a rope he was tied to the chair in a way that made sure the unconscious man wouldn't fall off it.

Grimaud talked to one of his helpers in a low voice and the man nodded and left, returning a moment later just as the other two finished tying Aramis to the chair. Grimaud grabbed the bucket of water the man had brought. “You and you stay, the rest can go,” he said, pointing with his head to the Arab and the other man who had come in with Grimaud. After the dismissed men had left the room, the remaining two took up position, one in the left-hand corner, the other, the one who had warned Athos about the leverage Grimaud intended to use, beside the door, both men cradling their rifles in their arms, ready to use.

Grimaud took a step forward, emptying the bucket of water over Aramis.

Aramis' head snapped up. “What,” he said, looking around uncomprehendingly.

“Welcome, Musketeer,” Grimaud sneered. “Now look at you, the great war heroes, the infamous Inseparables. Bruised and battered and utterly at my mercy.” He stared at them, hate blazing in his eyes. “Time to end this once and for all.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“And?” Porthos asked, leaning in the doorway to d'Artagnan's office, looking very sickly. “Did you find something on the surveillance footage?” 

D'Artagnan looked up, frowning. “You don't look good, you should rest. You look pale.”

“It's nothing,” Porthos replied. “I'll take some painkillers. Did you find anything?”

“No, I can't get into their system,” d'Artagnan said angrily. “What a total fuck-up!” He hit his mouse and it slid over the table. “Maybe you should see a doctor again. Are they sure it's only a mild concussion and not something more serious?”

Ignoring d'Artagnan's remark, Porthos replied,” What do you mean you can't get into their system? Usually you can crack everything. It can't be more difficult than hacking into police servers.”

“It means I can't get into the system because I can't crack it because it's bloody well-protected,” d'Artagnan snapped at Porthos. “It's not as easy as you always presume it is! I'm no hacker, I'm just better with computer things than the rest of you!” D'Artagnan glowered at Porthos, apparently holding back another snide remark. “Obviously, the French Parliament's security system is better secured against cyber-attacks than local authorities,” he added in a more placatory tone.

Porthos moved, rounding the desk and putting a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder. Squeezing it lightly he said, “Sorry, I didn't mean to criticise you. I can't even image how you always manage to get all the information at all, it's a mystery to me. I had just hoped we would find a trace.”

“I know. Sorry,” d'Artagnan said, looking up at Porthos. “It's just so frustrating that I can't get access to the CCTV cameras around there. There are a couple of cameras further down the road I have access to, but they are too far away to be of any use. I don't have anything we can work with.”

“Do you know if--,” Porthos started but stopped mid-sentence. Covering his mouth with his hand, he rushed out of the door, making a beeline for the cloakroom.

D'Artagnan rose halfways from his chair, worriedly looking after Porthos. If Porthos was more badly injured than they had thought, d'Artagnan had a problem. It would mean he would more or less be on his own in their search for Aramis and Athos. Frustrated, he kicked the bin under his desk so it spilled its content over the floor. Then he followed Porthos to the loo.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Aramis!” Athos tried to get the younger man's attention. “What happened? How are you?” 

Aramis' head had sunken down again the moment Grimaud had left the room. He didn't react to Athos' voice.

“Aramis,” Athos said again insistently, cursing the fact that he was tightly bound and not able to get any nearer to Aramis, let alone look after him. Eyeing the two guards, Athos wondered why Grimaud had left the room without comment or further action a moment ago, just when Athos had thought Grimaud would draw his weapon and end their lives with a precise shot. “Hey!” Athos shouted, trying to get the guards' attention. “What happened to him? He needs immediate treatment!”

The guard at the door looked to and fro between Athos and the second guard, Athos' question obviously discomfiting him. “I don't know what happened to him, when he was brought here he was already injured,” he finally replied.

“It was Feron,” Aramis slurred, very slowly raising his head. “He took me by surprise. Stabbed me. Then brought me here.”

Athos, who had until now been convinced that the back-up team he had called for had been able to take out Grimaud's men, help Aramis and Porthos against their attackers and free Henri while he had chased after Grimaud, was seized by an uneasy feeling. “What about Henri? What about the others? I thought the special forces had defeated Grimaud's men and freed Henri?”

“They did. Henri is safe, the others, too. I was on my way back home from hospital and bumped into Feron,” Aramis said in a low voice. It was obvious that he was in pain and had problems talking at all.

“So, eventually Feron showed up in Paris? How are you?” Athos asked worriedly.

“To be honest, bad. I'm not quite sure how many internal organs are affected, but it sure hurts like hell. Not sure how much longer I'll live through this.”

“Hang in there! Porthos and d'Artagnan will come, they never failed to get us out of any mess we were in. Never.”

Slowly, Aramis turned his head, looking at Athos. “Not this time, I fear. Something feels terribly wrong inside my belly,” he said so softly Athos almost didn't catch the last words.

Aramis' statement made Athos' blood run cold. “Just try to keep awake as long as possible. I'm sure help is already on its way. Hey, you there!” Athos called again to get the guards' attention. “This man needs treatment, what is your plan? Are you going to just let us die here? I thought Grimaud wants information.”

The guard beside the door stirred, looking Aramis over closely. After a moment he said, “I thought you said you don't have any information for Grimaud.”

“Right, but Grimaud must decide what he wants. If he doesn't need us any more there's no reason not to shoot us here and now. Or he still wants to get information from us or maybe use us as bait or some kind of leverage in negotiations with the police. Then he needs us alive, which we won't be any longer if we don't see a doctor pretty soon,” Athos growled. “If we have outlived our usefulness then you should at least have the good grace to kill us with a clean shot, and not let us bleed to death like beasts.”

The Islamic guard briefly stared at Athos, then he said something to the other guard in Arabic before quickly slipping through the door.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

An hour later Porthos still lay on the couch in Athos' office, still white as a sheet. “I'll be okay as soon as the dizziness is gone, believe me. Give me half an hour and another painkiller, then we can go and question shopkeepers and try our luck with the security agents at the Palais du Luxembourg.” 

“You're not nearly fit enough to walk anywhere, but it's your decision, I won't keep you,” d'Artagnan said. He sat at Athos' desk and typed on the keyboard, his eyes constantly switching between the two computer screens. “Now I need to start the programme on Aramis' computer as well, then we'll hopefully soon get results.”

“And you're sure this works?” Pothos asked.

“My friend, and when I say friend I mean he's not exactly a friend, more a hacker I know from back in school and with whom I loosely held contact afterwards. Anyway, he developed this programme and it's at least as good as the facial recognition system the European authorities work with, maybe even a bit more cleverly worked out. I'll have the programme running on all computers, that way I can scan four times as much footage as I could with only one computer.“ D'Artagnan hit a single key energetically, obviously done with whatever he had worked on and turned to Porthos. “Eyesi, that's what the programme is called, scans various footage of every CCTV camera within Greater Paris I can get access to at the moment, the footage running in real-time on all computers. It scans every single frame for conformity with either Aramis or Athos' facial features. I need to check occasionally if the transmissions are still running, sometimes the tapped computers recognise that they are being tapped and throw me from their servers.” D'Artagnan had rounded the desk and stood in front of Porthos, regarding the older man closely. “Simultaneously, Eyesi also goes through older footage if it's accessible via the individual severs it currently has access to. Depends on how long the servers store the footage.”

“And why didn't you use it before? With Henri, or Grimaud?” Porthos asked curiously and in no way whatsoever reproachfully.

D'Artagnan sighed audibly. “Because Jean-Baptiste does not sell the programme, at least not officially and not to private persons, if you know what I mean. And if he does, it has its price. Besides, I’ve only just remembered that he worked on it years ago, and when I called him earlier he told me that it was really brought to completion and is successfully in use by some, well, er, clients of his.”

“Do you mean to say using this programme in Europe is illegal?” Porthos asked, inconveniently just now reminded by his law-abiding mind that he held, after all, a master's degree in law studies.

“Um, well,” d'Artagnan said sheepishly.

Porthos furrowed his brow.

“Well, it's not as if tapping CCTV cameras would be legal, so it doesn't make any difference whether or not the programme is illegal, right?” D'Artagnan shrugged. 

“No, that's right,” Porthos grunted. “And what was his price?”

“Don't ask,” d'Artagnan replied, fending off the question by waving his hands around. “Leave it to me, I'll sort it out later. I'm at Aramis' office now.”

Before he could leave the room, Constance came in with two coffee mugs in her hands and a bottle of water carried under her arm. “Here,” she said, handing one of the mugs to d'Artagnan. “You look like you could use one.”

The second cup of coffee she placed on the side table, holding out the bottle of water to Porthos. “You need to drink, it helps with the dizziness.” She pulled a blister pack out of her pocket. Handing it to Porthos, she said, “This should help with the nausea, at least a bit. You shouldn't take any more painkillers, I think you’ve already had enough for today.”

Porthos propped himself up, immediately pressing out one of the pills. He swallowed one with the water, emptying half of the bottle with one gulp. “When you're finished with Aramis' computer we can go.”

“You don't look like you'd be fit to go anywhere in the near future,” Constance said. “I can go with d'Artagnan.”

“Well,” d'Artagnan drawled. “Someone would definitely have to stay here and keep an eye on everything, check the footage when there's a match and so on. I will go alone and you two stay here. Porthos is probably not even fit enough to run from room to room and check the computers.”

“No way,” Porthos growled. “I'm going. Constance can look after the computers.”

“I don't see a problem if Porthos stays here alone and checks the computers from time to time. He can still rest, and I'm sure he's capable of getting up and walk from room to room if needed, especially if he thinks he's actually fit enough to go out,” Constance countered.

“Well, when one of the computers gives an alert and has a match, one needs to check if it's really Aramis or Athos the footage shows and if it's a current recording or from some older material. I've tapped numerous surveillance systems, some store their footage as long as a week or a month, so maybe the computer will get matches on material as old as a week or more. If it's not a recent recording, or if it doesn't show Aramis or Athos, the result must be skipped and the search resumed,” d'Artgagnan explained. “And then, there's another problem. It's possible that the programme gets detected and blocked. We would have to reset and work around the firewall again to get access to it,” he added thoughtfully.

“How likely is this to happen?” Porthos asked.

“Frankly, quite often. Some servers have programmes which repeat their search for security loopholes within very short time intervals. That's why I usually don't stay logged in into any external servers for longer than half an hour.”

“So, this sounds like it would be best if you stayed here. I've no idea how this all works, but I guess we'd probably lose precious time if the process stops and Constance can't get it running again. Or can you?” Porthos asked Constance.

“No, definitely not,” Constance snapped, glowering at Porthos. “I suggest Porthos and I go questioning people and you stay here with the computers and make sure everything is running smoothly. You're the only one who can handle the computers properly.” Expectantly, she looked at d'Artagnan.

“No! Porthos isn't fit and can hardly walk straight and you--,” he swallowed what he had meant to say, altering his argument within a second. “You should stay here with him in case his health worsens. Maybe he needs help,” he added lamely.

Constance glowered at d'Artagnan. “What you meant to say is that I'm not capable of looking after myself, right? That it's probably too dangerous for me? I'll go with Porthos and you stay here. Period.” She moved to the door. “I'll call Anne, see if she's alright and if she has news. Then I'll try to get Brujon on the phone, maybe the police has news. You,” she pointed to d'Artagnan. “You are going to get the programme running on Aramis' computer and let us know as soon as you have something. And you,” she said, turning to Porthos again. “You're finishing that bottle of water and drink your coffee as well, it will help. Stay on the couch until I'm ready to go.” Glowering one last time at d'Artagnan she left the office, walking to the reception desk where she picked up the phone to make her calls.

Porthos and d'Artagnan stared at each other with huge eyes. “What have we missed?” Porthos whispered in disbelief. “When in the world did your sweet Constance turn into Madame Bonacieux, bossing us around like some fresh cadets?”

D'Artagnan slowly shook his head. “I've no idea.” Somehow they must have missed the moment Constance had taken over the reins at LaFère Security.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“And there I thought I'd been the only one who got caught off-guard,” Athos stated in a low voice. “Where did you encounter Feron? What did he say?” 

“He stepped out of a door on Rue Vaugirad and I bumped into him. He recovered a bit faster than I and stabbed me.” Aramis paused, sucking in air, his breath rattling and uneven. “I woke up in his flat, I guess, where he mocked me for a while before I was brought here.”

“Seems we're in a right mess.”

“And I doubt you made it any better by shouting at them, daring them to kill us immediately. Ah, what the heck, at least it'll be over quickly.”

The door was pushed open with a bang, bouncing back from the wall, attracting the Musketeers' attention. Grimaud came rushing in, followed by the guard.

“You want to die? You can have that,” Grimaud snarled. “I don't need you as a bargaining chip because there won't be any negotiations with the police. I don't need you any longer at all!”

Athos stared irately at Grimaud. For the first time he realised that Grimaud, behind his expression of hate and contempt, looked tired and worn out. Athos remembered what Grimaud had told him, about the inhuman torture he had had to suffer, and all thanks to them.

“I'm so fed up with you,” Grimaud said in a dangerously low voice. “And I just don't have the time to deal with you any longer. To hell with Rochefort's key and to hell with you. This ends here.” He unwrapped the longish object he had brought with him and had kept in his left hand, revealing a kind of short scimitar. “Do you have any idea how it feels to kneel in the dirt, waiting for your execution? Waiting for the sword to come down on your neck? No? Well, now you can experience it first-hand.” He moved closer to Aramis.

Athos wondered if Grimaud had lost his sanity, just like Rochefort had in the end. “You can't be serious,” he hissed. “If you want to kill us, shoot us. This is insane. We're not in the Afghan Desert!”

“I don't care where we are. Who knows, maybe I don't hit right with the first stroke of the sword,” he mused spitefully. “I've been told that you're still conscious and can literally feel how the head is lopped off halfway through, the neck gaping wide open.” The dangerous glitter in Grimaud's eyes only emphasised the seriousness of his words.

“You're insane,” Athos said again, momentarily being at a loss for more sensible words.

One of the guards, the one who had bandaged Athos, said something to Grimaud in Arabic, sounding angry.

Grimaud replied, to Athos' great astonishment, also in Arabic.

The guard responded, more aggressively than before, his voice raised.

Now the other guard also said something in Arabic.

Athos, tensely following the conversation, didn't understand one word of what was said, only that the name of Allah apparently was, among other things, subject of the discussion.

“Shut up!” Grimaud suddenly shouted in French. “I don't care what you say. This is my business, and mine alone.” He closed the distance to Aramis and grabbed his hair, yanking the head back. Slowly, Grimaud placed the scimitar in position on the bare skin of Aramis' throat, obviously aiming for his strike. He looked at Athos, grinning coldly.

Once more, the guard at the door said something in Arabic, urgently. While speaking, he slowly moved forward a couple of steps.

Grimaud stared at the guard, and after a moment's hesitation he let the scimitar sink down a bit while his hand resumed holding Aramis' head back. “I never heard of that before,” he replied.

Noises from the door interrupted the two men's staring at each other, a man stepping into the room a moment later. “A call from Hamid,” he said. “It's urgent.”

Snorting with rage, Grimaud finally released Aramis' head and lowered the scimitar. “What does he want?” he asked annoyed.

“You'll have to ask him,” the man answered in an undertone of testiness. “As I said, it's urgent.”

“All right,” Grimaud said, striding to the door. “Stay here and don't take your eyes off them,” he ordered the two guards. “They're highly dangerous, even if they currently look like they wouldn't be able to lift a finger. I'll be right back and finish what I've started.” Before slipping through the door, he stopped beside the one guard. “Do never again speak to me in such a manner,” he hissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyesi®Surgical is a high-end virtual reality simulator for intraocular surgery training and not a face recognition programme, though highly likely as costly as Jean-Baptiste's programme is for d'Artagnan. It's a registered trademark, so just to be on the safe side, there's no copyright infringement intended here whatsoever. I liked the name and thought it fitting for an face recognition programme; besides, my younger brother developed Eyesi®Surgical (along with colleagues), so I think it kind of stays in the family...


	9. Chapter 9

“I’ve found them!” d'Artagnan shouted just as Constance and Porthos were about to leave. “I know where they’re being held!”

“Really?” Porthos closed the door again in a hurry. “Both of them? Where?”

“Come over and I'll show you,” d'Artagnan replied from his seat behind Aramis' desk. “Eyesi had a match with Athos, footage from last night showing how he and Grimaud entered a house in Pantin, on Rue Jacquard. We were lucky, the house is quite some distance away from the camera, but the footage has a good shot of Athos almost directly looking into the camera, otherwise even Jean-Baptiste's programme might not have been able to get a match. I zoomed in on the scene, it's definitely Athos and Grimaud. I fast-forwarded the whole footage to check whether they left again – which they didn't as far as I could see – and guess what I found,” d'Artagnan said, showing them a still from the footage. “Look, Aramis was brought there a short while ago and he really doesn't look well.”

“My God,” Constance whispered. “Is that blood? His whole shirt is soaked through, and he looks unconscious.”

“Who's the guy with him? Is that Feron?” Porthos asked, barely able to contain his anger.

“If he looks anything like in past times, I would say yes. He leaves again fifteen minutes later, alone,” d'Artagnan replied. “I've fast-forwarded until now, they are all still inside, unless there's another exit somewhere the camera doesn't cover. What do we do?”

“I'll call Retancourt. Or Danglard, if she's not in,” Constance said, already turning to make her way to the reception area.

“No,” Porthos said, straightening himself. “Wait! D'Artagnan and I will go, we can't waste any more time if Aramis' condition is only half as bad as the picture indicates, and we don't know what's with Athos. He was injured from the fight and God knows what Grimaud’s done to him in the meantime.”

“But you can't do this on your own, it’s too dangerous!” Constance said angrily. “You two against Grimaud's men just won't work, it's insane. There's too much at stake here!”

“You're absolutely right, we can't do this alone and we won't. You'll call the police as soon as d'Artagnan and I have left the office. If we call now, we'll be ordered to stay here, you know how this works. Retancourt’s already warned us to leave it to them and that just won't do. No one can keep me from going there. So, as soon as we're gone you call the police, send them the footage and give them the address. If they ask where we are, say we're out or you don't know where we are or whatever. Make something up, you can handle this. And tell them to hurry!”

“Okay,” said Constance, taking a deep breath. “How can I attach the footage to the e-mail? They'll need to see the house and everything to make plans how to get in.”

D'Artagnan had started typing on the keyboard while Porthos had talked, finishing what he’d started. “Here, I've sent an e-mail to your account with the relevant footage as an attachment. I've also added the IP address from the surveillance systems as well as the house's address and some stills. Just forward it to every police e-mail address we have.” He got up, joining Porthos at the door. “Call them as soon as we're out of the door, you can start sending the messages while you're on the phone with them, that way you can make sure that they receive the e-mail. If they can't open the attachments for whatever reasons, they can log in onto the server via the provided IP address.”

“I'll get some weapons from the gun safe,” Porthos said, hurrying to Athos' office.

“Constance,” d'Artagnan said, stepping up to Constance and grabbing her hands. “I'll let the programme keep running through any accessible footage. If there's another match, something from today, give us a call. Maybe they’ll leave while we're on our way, or there's another entrance or something. No matter what, call us if the computer finds Athos or Aramis again on footage, especially if it’s from now onwards.”

Constance nodded. “I will do. Promise me to take care.” She kissed him, deepening the kiss when she felt d'Artagnan's arms around her waist, pulling her closer.

“D'Artagnan, come, let's move!” Porthos shouted from the door, carrying two handguns.

D'Artagnan ended the kiss, cupping Constance's face with both hands. “I love you, never forget that.” He quickly kissed her again before joining Porthos.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Porthos had ordered a taxi while picking up the guns, and the car was already waiting outside. The drive would take at least half an hour. “I'll pay you extra if you make it in twenty minutes,” he said to the driver after telling him the destination's address. 

“No problem, man,” the taxi driver replied nonchalantly. He engaged first gear and with a quick gaze into the rear view mirror he merged into the traffic with squealing tyres.

“If Constance alerts the police now, they'll certainly need half an hour just to get a rescue team together, and then another half hour to get to the house and check the location. This means we have half an hour head start to sort things out,” Porthos said in a hushed voice.

“What do you intend to do? We should check if there's a second access to the house, but even if we manage to get in there without being detected, there’s only two of us, and I'm sure there are more people in the house than just Grimaud with Athos and Aramis. And I bet they're armed to the teeth. You heard what Retancourt said about all the weapons and explosives they found in the estate's grounds.”

“You can bet your life on it, but that's not what concerns me now. I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll split up. I'll go in there, testing the water if you will, and you stay outside until further notice.”

“What do you mean until further notice? That's insane,” d'Artagnan hissed. “You won't last one minute there, we'll be so badly outnumbered it's ridiculous. They'll make mincemeat out of you in no time.”

“Let them, I don't care.”

D'Artagnan huffed. He refrained from replying something and let his head sink down on the headrest instead. Dwelling on his own gloomy thoughts, he stared out of the window.

Porthos closed his eyes, seizing the opportunity to pull himself together and get rid of the sick feeling that had not left him all day.

When the taxi turned off from the Boulevard Périphérique near the conspicuous cinema _Étoile Lilas_ eighteen minutes later Porthos said softly, “It's not about beating them, it's about stalling for time. We won't stand a chance against them if they're in the majority again, I'm fully aware of that, but that's not what matters. We only need to keep them occupied until the special forces are there.” He opened his eyes, looking at d'Artagnan. “Athos and Aramis are injured, we don't know what Grimaud’s done to them in the meantime. When I'm in there, I'll see to it that he doesn’t lay his hands on them any more until the police get there, whatever the cost. I'm not planning to fight them, I'll just make sure to keep Athos and Aramis alive.”

D'Artagnan stared at Porthos. When it fully dawned on him what Porthos had planned, he started grinning. “Sounds to me like a good plan.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When Grimaud returned half an hour later, looking angry and harried, he didn't have the scimitar with him. A fact Athos registered with great relief, even though he knew it wasn’t likely to save them from being killed. Aramis had sunk back into unconsciousness the moment Grimaud had released his head, and he hadn't shown any signs of coming round again ever since. Athos hoped that Grimaud would leave Aramis in peace now and vent his anger on him instead. 

Grimaud planted himself in front of Athos and then, without warning, he struck him in the face with his clenched fist.

Athos' head flew sideways and he nearly blacked out. Immediately he tasted blood in his mouth and felt a tooth coming loose. However, before he could bring his head around again, another blow hit him. And then another. Grimaud was raining blows on him and Athos could do nothing other than endure it. When a cut on his brow spilled blood over his face, he couldn't see straight any more and closed his eyes, resigning himself to his fate.

Suddenly, as abruptly as they had started, the blows ended. When he opened his eyes, blinking to get the blood out of them, Athos saw the terrorist who had dared to put Grimaud in his place earlier, standing beside Grimaud, his hand resting on the other’s arm.

“You must learn to keep your anger in check, brother,” the man said sternly in French. “You must always have yourself under control. Allah alone leads your hand in action, not you.”

Grimaud glowered at the man. “You and your Allah, you've no idea what this all is about,” he growled. “But you're right. They're not worth the dirt under my feet, less so that I bloody my hands on them.” He flexed his fingers, regarding the bloodied knuckles on his left hand. Drawing a weapon from the back of his waistband with his bandaged right hand, he said, “We're leaving. Pack everything together, don't leave any traces. We're no longer safe here, there's a change of plan. We'll have to act sooner than planned.”

The Arab stared at Grimaud with a frown. “What do you mean by we'll have to act earlier?”

Grimaud looked at the man, his expression clearly showing his dismay about the fact that his orders, for once, hadn’t gone unchallenged. “Well, you can always ask Hamid if it doesn't suit your plans,” he replied icily.

Both men stared at each other. During the ensuing quietness, repeated shouting could be heard from outside. Grimaud furrowed his brow, finally breaking eye-contact with the terrorist. “What the hell is going on down there?” he asked of the room at large.

The clamour continued, and now they could make out what was shouted. Someone was vociferously calling Grimaud's name.

For the very first time in his entire life, Athos did something he had never done before. He started laughing uncontrollably. He felt a chuckle rise from his belly up the throat, gaining volume, pressing out, until it finally passed his lips and burst out as a nearly maniacal laughter. Not for the life of him could he stop it, even though knowing all too well that the whole situation was more than life-threatening, and apparently not only for him and Aramis. In his mind's eye, he could literally see Porthos standing in front of the house, daring Grimaud to come outside. “It's Porthos,” he panted between his laughing fit, wondering if this was just how it felt when someone finally lost his sanity.

“Silence him!” Grimaud barked. “Bring him up before someone gets annoyed and calls the police!”

“I doubt that will ever happen in this neighbourhood,” the guard muttered. “He'll be lucky if he doesn't get beaten up for yelling like that.” Quickly glancing at Athos he turned on his heel, rushing out of the room to follow orders.

Grimaud slapped Athos in the face with the hand that held the gun, and this finally ended Athos' laughing fit. He spat out some blood.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Grimaud!” Porthos shouted again on top of his lungs. “Come down if you dare!” 

There was still no movement in the house, no sign of life, and Porthos wondered if they’d got the right address or if Grimaud, and with him Athos and Aramis, were still there at all. 

“Grimaud!” he shouted again. Slightly turning his head to the right, he could see out of the corner of his eye d'Artagnan hiding behind a van a fair way off. He hoped his plan would work, namely keeping Grimaud and his helpers occupied long enough until the police finally arrived. What they had not considered, however, was the fact that maybe the house had been abandoned in the time between now and when the CCTV camera had caught Feron on footage, bringing Aramis to the hideout. Hearing noise from inside the house, he turned his head in time to see the door open a fraction.

“What do you want?” someone hissed.

“I want to see Grimaud, if it's no trouble to you,” Porthos replied politely.

The door opened, revealing an Arab pointing a gun at Porthos. With the handgun he beckoned Porthos to raise his hands and step in.

Porthos stretched himself to full height, slowly raising his arms. Then he stepped into the dark hallway.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Porthos was thoroughly searched and relieved of his weapons and mobile. Then his hands were bound behind the back with the help of a cable tie and he was pushed forward. Another man, by the looks of it also an Arab, called from upstairs to bring him up. Porthos climbed the stairs, sandwiched between the terrorist in front of him and the muzzle of a gun constantly pressed against his neck, until they reached the second floor. There was dirt everywhere and the whole building looked decayed and abandoned, except for the occasional stacks of boxes on the floor and camp beds Porthos had glimpsed in one of the rooms they passed. 

On the second floor they finally reached a door, guarded by a man who was armed with a rifle. The man's sneery gaze looked Porthos up and down, then he spat in front of the Musketeer before opening the door. Porthos was pushed inside the room with a heavy blow and stumbled forward, trying hard to keep his balance. Another feeling of dizziness, worse than before, had befallen him as soon as he had stepped through the front door.

The sight that met him in the room made him almost gasp and it took a moment to regain his composure. Apart from two men he registered out of the corner of his eye, and the one who had stepped inside behind him, there was nothing in the room but two chairs, standing at centre, both occupied. On the left chair sat Aramis, bent forward and apparently only held by a rope and cable ties that bound him to the chair. There was blood everywhere on his clothes and his head hung down lifelessly, his tousled hair making it impossible to get a glimpse of his face.

On the second chair sat Athos. His clothes were far less blood-soaked than Aramis', but the same couldn't be said of his face, which was covered in blood, numerous cuts and bruises completing the terrible sight. Despite all this, Athos was looking at Porthos with a lopsided grin, adding a bizarre touch to the whole scene.

“How comes you all make it so easy for me? Did you all forget how to fight properly or is it just your sluggish and clumsy minds that lead you into disaster?”

Porthos tore his eyes away from his brothers, slowly turning towards Grimaud. “You never did and you never will defeat us. What you will do, however, is pay for this,” Porthos growled.

Grimaud looked really surprised. “Look around you,” he said, waving the hand holding the gun around. “You're finished. This is the end. You'll all be dead within the next few minutes, what part of that don't you get?”

“You always made the mistake of underestimating us, didn't you?” Porthos replied, having no idea whatsoever how he should stall Grimaud until somebody came to their aid. “We're not even nearly finished.”

Grimaud squinted at Porthos for a long time. “Have you lost your mind?” he finally asked, almost sounding genuinely concerned. “Is it that? You really don't look well, maybe your befuddled brains can't grasp the reality any longer?”

Porthos, who had great problems keeping upright due to the dizziness and growing nausea, slowly moved to bring his body between Aramis and Grimaud. If the situation got worse, he would at least be between Grimaud's weapon and his ailing friend.

Turning to the Arab, Grimaud said, “As soon as we're ready to go we'll finish them off. This bedraggled house shall be a fitting tomb for this lot, may they rot away here. Go and ask how long it’ll take until we're ready to leave.”

Just then, rumbling and cursing was heard from the hallway, constantly coming nearer. When the noise had reached its peak, the door burst open and two of Grimaud's helpers hauled d'Artagnan into the room. An accurate blow to d'Artagnan's head with the butt of a rifle ended the young man's fightback. Dazed, he slumped to the ground.

“We found another one lurking around the house,” one of the terrorists said, kicking d'Artagnan into the ribs.

“Fine,” Grimaud replied with satisfaction. “Get the rest packed, I'll finish this here, then we can go.”

He ordered everyone out except for the two Arabs who had been guarding Athos and Aramis.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

D'Artagnan groaned, trying to get up but was hindered by Grimaud's boot stepping on his right lower arm, keeping him down on the ground. 

“I know you said a quarter of an hour, but that was just too long for me to wait,” d'Artagnan said, gazing at Porthos.

Athos frowned at d'Artagnan's words. Had the boy really risked being caught, probably ruining whatever plan Porthos might have had, because he couldn't check his impatience? He quickly gazed at Porthos, whose tiny nod towards the Gascon and the strangely blank mien placated Athos a bit. If he could read Porthos' reaction right, the boy had done nothing wrong.

Glancing at d'Artagnan, Athos found himself being scrutinized by the young man. They made eye contact and d'Artagnan nodded minimally, conveying a message solely by the way he looked at Athos. Obviously, Athos realised, had his capture nothing to do with the rashness that was still so typical for the Gascon from time to time. D'Artagnan had played his part in a plan, and his appearance and strange statement maybe meant that back-up was on the way, but they probably wouldn't be here before at least a quarter hour had passed. Something along these lines was at least what Athos made out of it for himself; everything else would be catastrophic.

“What a strange twist of fate, that in the end you're all here, just like I had hoped,” Grimaud said smugly, piling more pressure on d'Artagnan's arm by pressing his boot's heel deeper into the flesh. “It's really too bad I don't have the time now to savour this moment, but duty calls. You'll get an undeservedly quick death, but nonetheless, rest assured it'll be a pleasure for me to finally see you gone.” He quickly glanced at each of them, his eyes finally coming to rest on Aramis. “Well, I probably won’t have to shoot this one any more.”

“At least let d'Artagnan go. You have the three of us, you don't need the boy,” Athos said, getting in a sweat about the fact that maybe there was no more time left to wait for help from outside. “Please,” he added.

Grimaud barked a laugh. “Is the great Athos really begging me for a life? As you should know by now, I have no heart. You're wasting your time if you try to curry sympathy from me. He'll die like the rest of you.” He dropped his gaze to where d'Artagnan lay. “In fact, I'll start with him.” Grimaud quickly bent down and seized d'Artagnan by the collar, brutally yanking him up. Firmly holding him an arm's length away, he placed the muzzle of his pistol directly on d'Artagnan's temple, just above the right ear. “And please, spare me any heroic rescue attempts,” he said, looking at the two minders left and right in the corners of the room, signalling to them to draw their weapons.

Both Arabs cocked their guns while taking aim, one pointing his weapon at Athos, the other one at Porthos.

“This time, here's no escape for you. On the count of three,” he said with a hideous smirk on his face. Slightly moving his finger, he cocked the gun. “One,” he started counting.

“Wait!” Athos shouted in sheer despair, tearing at the cable ties binding him to the chair. “No! Not him!”

Undisturbed by Athos' outburst of emotions Grimaud continued with his short countdown. “Two. Thr--”

Before the rest of the short word left Grimaud's lips, a shot rang through the room, quickly followed by a second one.

Aramis' head snapped up, the first sign in over half an hour that there was still life in him.

With eyes big as saucers, d'Artagnan blinked at Athos, evidently in total disbelief that he felt no pain, that he still stood upright, that he was still able to blink at Athos at all.


	10. Chapter 10

While the shots' echo still bounced back from the walls, realisation hit the Musketeers that it had not been Grimaud who had fired, and that apparently neither of them had been hit. They saw how Grimaud, who had been thrown sideways by the first shot, slid along the wall and down to the ground. A black hole had appeared on the side of his brow, dark blood spilling out and running down the temple. The second shot had hit the Arab guard in the lefthand corner who stared at them with an expression of astonishment on his face, clutching at his throat where the bullet had obviously ripped through the carotid artery. He hit the ground face-first with a thud.

As one, the Inseparables looked to the third man in the room, the Arab who had brought in Porthos.

The man slowly lowered his weapon, removing his sunglasses with his free hand. “I'm sorry I wasn't able to intervene any earlier, I had my orders. It would have blown my cover. I'm really sorry.”

The Musketeers stared at the man without understanding.

“ _General Alaman_?” Porthos eventually asked in disbelief, taking a step towards the man.

“I'm no general nowadays, but the name's still the same,” Tariq Alaman replied, smiling warmly at them. “What a stroke of fate. The Israeli intelligence service infiltrated this terror cell over two years ago. It's one of the most important operations at the moment, and it was hard work to get so far, that's why I couldn't intervene, even if it was hard seeing you suffer,” he added, looking apologetically at Athos. He quickly moved to the door, opening it a hand's breath and peering outside. “We need to get out quickly, Aramis needs instant medical attention, he has already lost too much blood.” He closed the door again. “I don't know how long it will take until someone wonders why we're not joining the rest after shooting the prisoners. They'll have heard the shots. Here,” he said, thrusting a small knife into d'Artagnan's hand. ”Cut them loose.”

D'Artagnan stared at Tariq Alaman, apparently not able to process what had happened within the last few minutes, maybe shocked by the fact that he was still standing upright, alive.

“D'Artagnan,” Porthos barked. “Get moving!”

That finally shook the Gascon from his temporary torpor and he hurried to cut his friends loose, starting with Pothos.

In the meanwhile, Tariq gathered the abandoned handguns from his now dead, former fellow terrorists, checking on each of them for vital signs, in case his shots had not been lethal.

Before d'Artagnan cut Aramis loose, Porthos put his arm around the torso to prevent him from falling from the chair. “Careful now,” he murmured, lowering Aramis together with d'Artagnan to the ground with great care. While searching for Aramis' pulse on the neck with his right hand, he gently stroked the hair out of his friend's face with the other hand. “Aramis,” he called softly.

Athos knelt beside Aramis' other side as soon as d'Artagnan had cut him loose, not solely to look after Aramis but also because he didn't trust his legs to take his weight. Kneeling seemed a lot easier at the moment than standing. “He needs to see a doctor immediately.”

“Help should be here soon,” Porthos said absentmindedly, eventually taking his eyes off Aramis to look at his friend. “You need to see a doctor, too. There's something wrong with your face. Have you broken your nose?”

“Probably, among other things,” Athos muttered. “Never mind.”

Outside the room, noise was heard. Shots resounded through the house, followed by shouting and the clattering of boots, and some more shouting. Another single shot echoed off the walls somewhere downstairs.

Tariq held out one of the guns he had collected to Porthos. “Here, take this. You and d'Artagnan help me with whoever is coming through that door, Athos can stay with your friend.” He handed d'Artagnan the other gun.

“If we’re lucky, it's the back-up we called for,” Porthos said. “If it's your men, we'll make sure they don't get anywhere near Aramis and Athos until help arrives,” he added grimly.

However, before they could make a move the door burst open, two policemen with protective shields in front of them instantly blocking the door. “Police! Freeze! Hands up where we can see them!” they shouted. “Move slowly and drop the weapons!”

With a big sigh of relief Porthos slowly raised his hands. “Don't shoot, we're the ones who’ve been captured. We need instant medical assistance, two of us are severely injured.”

“Stay where you are, don't move and keep your hands up where we can see them,” one of the policemen said. “We're coming in now.”

More special forces members poured through the door, in full panoply and with their assault weapons at the ready. In no time at all they had secured the room, assured themselves that the two immobile men on the floor really were dead and that Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan were indeed who they claimed to be and the ones the RAID team had been tasked with rescuing. Only Tariq Alaman had been disarmed and handcuffed; the special forces team knew nothing of an undercover agent on-site and were waiting for confirmation from headquarters.

“We need an emergency doctor! Now!” Porthos barked. “Can't you see how badly wounded they are?”

The policeman closest to Porthos quickly glanced at Aramis and Athos, listening to information he received over his headset. “The house is secured. They're sending the paramedics up now,” he replied. “If you don't need immediate treatment you should make room and move to the side. Wait over there,” he said, pointing to the wall on his right side.

Before the paramedics arrived, Retancourt entered. She took stock of the situation, looking at each of the four intently to evaluate their health status. Then she gave a curt nod towards Porthos before walking over to where Grimaud lay on the floor.

A moment later a team of paramedics entered, and now the room seemed to be overcrowded. The special forces leader in charge of the operation ordered his men out, except for two who were tasked with keeping Tariq under guard and one who stood watch by the corpses.

Porthos and d'Artagnan moved aside, away from Aramis on the floor and Athos, who sat on the chair again.

“I feel a bit dizzy,” Porthos murmured just when his knees gave way. He slid along the wall, taking a seat on the floor.

“I'll ask one of them to look after you when they've treated Aramis,” d'Artagnan said, looking down at Porthos.

“Never mind, I'll be okay in a moment. They should look after Athos and Aramis,” Porthos replied with a great deal of anxiety resonating in his voice. He watched how two of the paramedics immediately set to work treating Aramis as soon as they had put down their gear. One of the medics said something over his shoulder to the ones seeing to Athos, and one of them let up on Athos and joined the two by Aramis. Porthos furrowed his brow, anxiously darting a glance at d'Artagnan.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

D'Artagnan had watched the same scene with mounting worry. “He'll be all right,” he replied quietly in response to Porthos' worried expression. With a bad feeling, he watched how the newly arrived emergency doctor and accompanying medic promptly joined the others in their efforts to keep Aramis alive. By now, Aramis' torso was exposed to the waist, revealing not only the belly wound that was responsible for the great amount of fresh and partly dried blood everywhere, but also the shoulder wound that had started bleeding again, as well as the bruises on the ribcage. At least three tubes were attached to different limbs. One of the medics gave Aramis artificial respiration and another one stood to his left, holding up IV bags. 

Athos had allowed the medics to lay him on one of the folding stretchers they had brought and stoically endured being thoroughly probed and treated. As well as he could in his position he tried to monitor what was happening with Aramis.

Then there was a sudden, short flurry of activity with the medics that treated Aramis when one of them couldn't detect a pulse any more and the emergency doctor ordered them to prepare the patient for shock therapy. Despite his dizziness, Porthos rose, grabbing d'Artagnan's arm for support and both held their breath while watching each of the medics' movements.

“Come on, Aramis, hang in there,” Porthos whispered.

“I've got a pulse again,” the medic said before the defibrillator had come into use. “Weak but it's there.”

The emergency doctor ripped open several small packets, quickly giving Aramis two injections, and then they continued with stabilising Aramis' circulatory and staunching the flow of blood. After what seemed like an eternity, the emergency doctor finally rose. “He seems stable enough for transport now,” he said to the medics, but loud enough that everyone else could hear it. “Let's put him on a stretcher.”

Porthos briefly closed his eyes and sent a quick prayer heavenwards. When he opened his eyes again, he glimpsed movement and turned towards the door in time to see Tréville enter, supported by Brujon.

“Captain,” Porthos said, closing the distance to the door. “What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in hospital?”

Tréville's lopsided grin didn't match with the rest of his face which looked pale and twisted with pain. “I had to see for myself if you'd come out of this alive.” His eyes moved until they caught on Aramis' body on the floor. More gravely, he added, “Given the report I received from Retancourt about the operation in Montrouge and the latest footage of Aramis with Feron, I wasn't sure if this would end well. How is he? And how's Athos?”

“The doctor said Aramis would be stable enough for transport. I hope this is a good sign because he really didn't look well. It seems he's been unconscious for quite a while. As regards Athos, he's tough, at least for a comte. I think he'll live,” Porthos replied, and it was hard to tell whether it was his wry humour or plain fact that made him say so.

“And Grimaud?”

“He's dead, thanks to an undercover agent from Mossad who's infiltrated this terror cell. His swift reaction saved our lives. Tariq Alaman, you will remember him from past times,” Porthos said, pointing to the other side of the room where the former general stood, still kept in check by two RAID members who waited for confirmation of his identity. Suddenly, a flash of insight seemed to cross Porthos' mind, his expression changing. “Don't tell me he's your friend Moshe from Mossad and you knew of this undercover operation.”

Tréville shook his head. “No, Moshe is definitely someone else. I knew they had a big undercover operation going on with infiltrating terror cells, and I knew they were operating in Europe, but I had no idea about this here. What a fortunate turn of events that he was here.”

“It was,” Porthos said lowly. “If he had not been here, we'd all be dead now.”

Just then, the medics made their way to the door with Aramis on a stretcher. Before they could pass, Tréville addressed one of them. “Where are you taking him?”

“Most likely Saint-Louis or Croix Saint-Simon, they are closest, but the ops centre will have to check the intake capacity and tell us when we're on our way. We don't have confirmation yet.”

“Would he be stable enough to take him to the _Hôpital Val-de-Grâce_?” Tréville asked.

The medic turned to he emergency doctor to hear his opinion. The doctor contemplated the question for a moment. “The drive would be ten minutes more give or take, he seems stable enough that we have the extra time, but we would need confirmation that they'll take him. We can't go on a cruise in search for intake capacity if they turn us away. He needs proper treatment, and he needs it soon.”

“They will admit him, I cleared it before I came here. As soon as you're on your way I'll call them and announce your arrival. They'll have two teams waiting for you in the casualty department.”

“I'll go with Aramis,” Porthos said, moving to follow the stretcher.

“No,” Tréville said, grabbing Porthos' arm. “Go with Athos. I'm sure Aramis is in good hands and they might need the extra space in the ambulance for treatment.” He turned to address the medic carrying Athos on a stretcher. “Take him to the _Hôpital Val-de-Grâce_ , too, they have teams waiting.” Lightly touching Athos' shoulder he said, “You look awful.”

“Dito,” Athos replied. “Why are you here and not in hospital?”

Tréville stared at Athos for a moment. “Isn't it obvious?” he asked quietly. “As your captain it's my job to check on you personally. The reports and updates I received suggested that just this once the odds were against you.”

Athos opened his mouth to reply, but before he could answer a heavy thud behind Tréville caught their attention. Porthos had lost his balance and fallen to the ground like a felled tree.

“Don't you dare to get up again,” d'Artagnan hissed, kneeling down beside his friend. “Stay where you are until a medic has time to look after you. I knew you were not fighting fit. I should have listened to Constance.”

“I have just lost--” Porthos started, trying to push himself up.

“I swear I'll knock you unconscious here and now if you don't stay on the ground until someone has a look at you,” d'Artagnan growled with a slightly trembling voice, pushing Porthos back down on the floor vehemently. “Just because you're not bathed in blood like the others doesn't mean you're okay. Get yourself treated in hospital like the rest of them. If he wasn’t lying unconscious and half-dead on that stretcher, Aramis would give you a right royal lecture if he could see you now.”

“It's okay,” Tréville said softly, putting a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder. “Come on. I'll make sure he's admitted to hospital as well. Go with Athos. I'll need to settle a few things here and meet you there later. I'll personally see to it that Porthos is thoroughly looked at, leave it to me.”

D'Artagnan seemed ready to argue, but then he nodded reluctantly. Angrily glancing one last time at Porthos he followed the medics who carried Athos downstairs.

“You shouldn't put any more stress on his shoulders if it's avoidable,” Tréville said. “He was already worried sick when Athos had gone missing, Aramis' capture and your health issue didn't make it easier. He's still so young.”

“Sorry, it wasn't my intention,” Porthos mumbled, looking a tad embarrassed.

“I know. Now let yourself be treated, I'll see you later in hospital.”

Brujon, standing beside Tréville and listening to the conversation, said, “Sir, you should also go back to the hospital. You're far from being fit again. I shouldn't need to remind you that you've not been officially released yet.”

“Brujon,” Tréville replied leniently, directly looking at the young man. “There's still a lot you need to learn. Anyway, believe me when I say I have gone through worse than this, I'll survive. Now give me a moment, I need to sort things out with the officers over there, afterwards we can go back.” He waited until two medics started looking after Porthos, before he slowly walked over to where Tariq Alaman stood.

“ _Bonjour_ , General Alaman,” he greeted.

“Not general, I'm in the rank of a common lieutenant,” Tariq replied. “But it's good to see you again, Captain Tréville. Or do you also go by another title or name?”

“That's okay, I'm used to it,” Tréville replied with a faint smile.

“You know this man?” one of the special forces members asked.

“Yes, I do. He's a foreign agent working on an undercover operation and just saved the lives of my m--, er, of the men that had been captured here. Would you kindly take off the handcuffs?”

“I need confirmation from headquarters, sir,” the officer replied.

“I'm _commissaire divisionnaire_ Peyrer and accountable for this operation, now release this man. I vouch for him,” Tréville ordered decisively.

The officer nodded curtly, taking a key from his pocket. When he had uncuffed Alaman, he took a couple of steps away from both men, but still close enough for a quick intervention, if necessary.

“My friend Moshe Maisel told me there was an undercover operation going on, but I had no idea that it involved you. A rather nice surprise, I must admit,” Tréville said.

Alaman looked genuinely surprised. “You know Moshe? I've never heard him mention your name, though I knew he had contacts in Paris,” he replied.

“He doesn't know me as Tréville, to him I'm Jean Peyrer. In fact, nowadays only a handful of men and women still call me Tréville,” he added thoughtfully. “Anyway, I'll see what I can do for you. However, you'll have to accompany my people to the police station for further questioning before you can report back to your agency. I won't be able to go with you now, but I'm sure I'll see you later.” He extended his hand, waiting for Alaman to grab it. Firmly shaking the former Moorish general's hand, he said quietly, “Thank you for saving their lives.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_Two days later, Hôpital d'instruction des armées du Val-de-Grâce_  
 

Athos immediately knew that something was wrong the moment d'Artagnan stepped into the hospital room. He could read from the boy's face that something must have happened. “What's wrong?” he asked, internally preparing for the worst kind of news.

Carefully, d'Artagnan closed the door and stepped up to the bed. A faint smile that didn't reach his eyes played around his lips. “It's good to see you awake. When they rolled you out of surgery yesterday you didn't look too well.”

“D'Artagnan, the look on your face tells me something is wrong. Just spit it out. Is it Aramis?” he asked, fearing the answer as soon as he had voiced his concern.

D'Artagnan shook his head, hurriedly replying, “No. I’ve just come from the ICU. Porthos is with him, he's keeping watch and waits for Aramis to finally come around. He hasn't woken yet but the doctors say that's nothing to worry about, apparently they want to keep him in an artificial coma for a little longer. The surgeries seemed to have gone well, according to the nurses.”

Athos nodded. “Tréville was here late last night and informed me about Aramis' state of health. He also told me Porthos had been ordered to stay in bed, lest I wondered why he wouldn't come and see me. Is he sharing a room with Aramis in the ICU or how come he's by his side?” Athos perked his brow in his typical _comte_ -ly way.

D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulder. “You know him. I think he threatened the nurses to let him get up and stay with Aramis. But you know what? I couldn't care less if he's gambling with his health again. He has always been so pigheaded,” he replied slightly aggressively.

The boy's untypically aggressive tone of voice alarmed Athos even more. “What's it then? I can tell you've something on your mind.”

D'Artagnan swallowed down a lump in his throat before answering. “My uncle called. My mother was involved in a car accident. I need to fly to Quebec.”

“My God, I'm sorry to hear that. How is she? I hope it's nothing serious?”

“She's in hospital, severely wounded but not life-threatening, at least that's what my uncle said. I need to see her, Athos,” d'Artagnan said, almost pleadingly.

“Of course! Have you booked a flight? Let me know if you need anything, no matter what. I hope she'll recover soon, stay with her as long as is necessary.”

“I'd hate to leave you, what with you all being hospitalised at the moment, and Aramis not even awake yet, but I would never forgive myself if something happened to _maman_ and I wasn’t there. I couldn't stand the thought.”

“Come here,” Athos said, beckoning the Gascon to sit down on the bed. He moved to change into a more upright position, making room for d'Artagnan. “Listen, we'll be all right. What's important is that you go and see your mother, nothing else. She needs you now. You hear that?” he said emphatically.

“Yes,” d'Artagnan nodded. “I'd like to ask Constance if she would come with me, at least for a few days, if that's okay for you.” Expectantly he looked at Athos, clearly unsure about his request.

Athos looked surprised. “But of course, yes! Why do you even ask?”

Now d'Artagnan looked surprised. “But, with all of you being bedridden at the moment, there'd be no one in the office except for Charlène. I've no idea how she’d be able to attend to the work if she's on her own. There's already a list of clients--”

“D'Artagnan,” Athos said softly, interrupting the boy. He cupped the back of d'Artagnan's neck with his hand, squeezing it lightly. “Don't concern yourself with that now. That's not your problem. You've already done so much in the past couple of days, take Constance and go see your mother.”

“But,” d'Artagnan started.

“No. Leave it. I don't want to hear any more of this. If you need help with booking a flight or anything else, let me know, expense is no object. We'll get by, don't worry, just make sure that your mother gets well soon.”

D'Artagnan quickly hugged Athos as well as was possible with the bedridden man. “Keep me informed about how you all are faring, especially Aramis. Let me know as soon as he's conscious. I'll stop by again later when I've arranged flights and everything, okay?”

Athos nodded, giving d'Artagnan a reassuring smile. He watched the boy leave the room, wondering with a queasy feeling if it was pure coincidence that d'Artagnan's mother had been involved in a car accident on the other side of the Atlantic ocean right now, taking d'Artagnan thousands of kilometres away from his injured, bedridden friends.


	11. Chapter 11

_Two months later_

Athos was already sipping on his premier cru Morgeot when Tréville entered the restaurant, harried and twenty minutes late for their appointment.

“Sorry, I couldn't slip off earlier, the Minister of Justice went on and on,” Tréville said, slumping into the chair opposite Athos, grimacing as he did so because the movement tore at his scars. “May I have one of these, too?” he asked, pointing at Athos' glass of red wine.

“Help yourself,” Athos replied, gesturing with his hand to the bottle. “There's more where this came from.”

Filling his glass, Tréville asked, “So, how are things now?” He took a long drink, waiting for Athos' answer.

Athos shrugged his shoulder. “There's nothing new, if that's what you mean. Aramis is still in Spain, though I'm not sure whether or not I should start worrying about this fact. When he left, he said he needed some time away from Paris to regain his strength and ponder over a couple of things but, for the love of God, how much time does he need, I wonder?”

“His injuries were severe, certainly enough to make a man brood over a couple of things,” Tréville replied in a tone that suggested he knew exactly what he was talking about. “And there are definitely worse places to ruminate on the meaning of life than under southern Spain's sun.”

“Anyway, d'Artagnan flew back to Canada two days ago. His mother was finally released from hospital. From what I understood, there was a discussion whether she would return to France with d'Artagnan or stay in Quebec, the uncle was obviously suggesting that she should stay with them until she's fully recovered. A suggestion by the way that wasn't well received by d'Artagnan as far as I could judge.”

“Did you find any indication that the accident was not simply an accident but caused deliberately?” Tréville asked, accepting the menu from the waiter. “I'm still waiting for the police files, they seemed to have got lost somewhere in the machinery of international bureaucracy.”

Athos waited until the waiter had moved on before replying, “No. It seems it was a normal, everyday accident, caused by some drunk teenagers who lost control of their car. D'Artagnan managed to get hold of their personal data and we checked them thoroughly. Nothing in their story suggests that they acted on somebody's behalf.” Athos scanned the menu, quickly deciding to go with the plat du jour rather than his usual dish. “Things like that happen all the time, it was just the timing that worried me.”

Coming to a decision on what to order, Tréville closed the menu. “So you're not sure exactly when d'Artagnan will be back? Is Constance with him in Canada again?”

“No and yes,” Athos answered. “It depends on what they decide to do, though I hope it will take them no longer than a couple of days to sort it out. I expect them to be back next week, if all goes well. I'm not sure if d'Artagnan wanted Constance to accompany him because he feels that she's not safe here without him, or if it's merely for moral support. I can't blame him for it, though. Within a year, he lost his father, got stabbed, and now he’s nearly lost his mother, and then the thing with you and Aramis nearly dying wasn't easy for him either.”

“Not to mention your own near-death experiences during the past few months. He outshone himself at least twice to save you, don't forget that. You've always meant a lot to him,” Tréville said quietly.

Athos breathed heavily, taking a sip from his glass before answering, “Right.”

“So, it's only Porthos who's keeping you company in the office at the moment?” Tréville asked, changing the subject.

“Yes, it's almost like in the old days, when it was just me and Porthos and Charlène, running the show, though, currently it's only me and Charlène. Porthos is away for a few days with Elodie, they wanted to visit her parents.”

Tréville perked a brow, ginning. “He's already meeting his future in-laws? That's quite a brisk pace he's setting there.”

“You know him, how he is when he has set his mind on doing something.”

Tréville nodded affirmingly. Just then, the waiter returned. They placed their orders and asked for another bottle of wine and a bottle of water. Tréville picked up their conversation. “What's with your ex-wife? You said she thought about laying low for a while?”

“She's somewhere in southern France, possibly, though I have no idea exactly where. I know she inherited a small cottage in the hinterland of the Cote d'Azur years ago from her maternal grandmother, maybe she's there. When she visited me at the hospital and told me of her plans to leave Paris for a while she only spoke of maybe going somewhere south, depending on where she could find a decent hiding place. In the meanwhile, I’ve talked to her twice, but she didn't share information about her current whereabouts. For all I know, she could as well be in Italy, Spain or somewhere else entirely. I doubt she'll come back to Paris as long as Buckingham is still here, and she will definitely not return to London. I promised to let her know of any information we get hold of with regard to Buckingham. And we've still no knowledge about whether Gaston and his Medici mother knew of her role in their deaths, a further threat we have to keep in mind.” Athos moved his glass in circles, contemplating the thin layer the full-bodied wine left on the glass' inner surface. “We also don't know yet if they know it was Anne who had ordered their deaths,” Athos added with a sigh. “I'm so fed up with this bloody sword of Damocles constantly hanging over all our heads.”

“Well, we can hardly go and ask them whether they know or not, but at least we can keep an eye on them. I’ve had both of them traced ever since they left Paris,” Tréville said, gracefully slipping into his role as detective chief superintendent. “Like I said, they parted ways in Switzerland, Maria de' Medici returned to their flat in Rome and is currently working in a gallery on Via Sforza Cesarini where she is part owner. Her husband is in their house in Castelldefels in Spain, I've had it checked with the local authorities only yesterday. Gaston spent a few more days in Geneva, met with some people there, did some shopping. Then he went to visit his oldest brother on the family's country estate in Grünau in Austria. Apparently he's still there, according to information I received from my contact at the municipal police. Or does d'Artagnan have other information?”

Athos shook his head. “Nothing I know of. He still has a bug placed in Gaston's suitcase, and, like you, d'Artagnan traced it from Paris to Geneva and then on to the Almtal in Austria. The signal hasn't moved since, which means that Gaston is either still there, or has his suitcase deposited there. We can't be sure whether Gaston has detected the bug or not or if he's always carrying the suitcase with him at all. We can't positively rely on this tracking device.”

“Right. I'll stay in close contact with the municipal police, usually they are well informed about which family members of the House of Hanover are staying in Grünau, and when. I also spoke with Louis again before he returned to Germany. He thinks neither Gaston nor their former mother know about Anne and Milady de Winter's role in their deaths, but naturally, he didn't ask specifically about it. It was just his impression during their talks, whose sole topic, by the way, really was only Gaston's current, financial problems. He apologised for the threats he uttered recently against Louis and Ernst-August, and they did not once talk about former times, except for Maria de' Medici's presence in Paris. Her sole purpose in coming had been, according to Gaston, to meet Louis. He outright denied seeing her, though, and he didn't speak to her personally. There's no love lost between these two, still, after all these centuries. I can't blame him for the sentiment. Since the day he was born, she lacked maternal feelings for her first-born. She was a cruel mother,” Tréville added reflectively.

“Are you suggesting we can strike Gaston and Maria de' Medici off our list of enemies?”

“No, I wouldn't go so far as to neglect them completely, but I think we can disregard them for the time being. As long as we keep an eye on them, we should be on the safe side. There are others who seem to be more dangerous to us at the moment.” Tréville had lowered his voice involuntarily.

“Feron and Marcheaux,” Athos replied.

“There's still no trace of either of them. Feron's flat on Rue Vaugirard, the one where he kept Aramis for a short while, was thoroughly searched, but it was almost clinically clean, no traces whatsoever, no hints where he might be now. I'm sure it was just one of many hideouts he has at hand. International search warrants are out for both men, and I'm in close contact with the authorities in Spain who are also intensively searching for them. I'd like to say it's only a matter of time until they are caught by one or the other European police authority, but we both know how devious they are, and they are probably part of a criminal network who is backing them.”

“Speaking of which, what about the terrorist organisation Grimaud worked for? Did you get any information out of the terrorists you arrested? Was Tariq able to contribute anything? Connections, names, hideout places, anything?”

“We're working on it, but it’s proving difficult to get any information out of them at all,” Tréville replied. “We learned some of how Grimaud came to join the terrorist group, and what Rochefort and the money has to do with it all, but none of the men we arrested has said a word about Feron or Marcheaux. Alaman had seen Feron once before, in the house that functioned as the terrorist cell's headquarter, but he only talked to Grimaud in private. He couldn't remember if he had ever seen Marcheaux in the vicinity of the house, nor had he ever heard Grimaud mention their names in any context.”

“Is he back in Israel?”

“He was officially released on bond three days ago, allegedly for lack of evidence, but I'm not informed of Mossad's plans in regard to his undercover operation. We kept the facade up as best as was possible, giving the impression that he was arrested like everyone else, in case he was sent back to the organisation, but I don't know what was decided in the end, whether he should return to the terrorist group or go back home. I'm not even sure if he has left Paris in the meantime. I'll try to speak with Moshe later and see if he knows anything. Hell, you know how secretive these intelligence services are, always trying to keep you in the dark about everything.”

“So, what we know is that Gaston and Maria de' Medici are out of the country and apparently no immediate threat to us at the moment, Buckingham is still in Paris, and definitely a threat to my ex-wife, possibly a threat to Anne, and Feron and Marcheaux are on the loose somewhere and most definitely a threat to all of us. Do I have this right?”

Tréville nodded haltingly. “I think that sums it up about right. Though my guess is that both Feron and Marcheaux are not in Paris, probably not even in France. They'd be clever enough as to hide as far away from you as possible. If they plan something, I'm sure they'll wait until the dust Grimaud's operation caused has settled. I would even bet they are hiding somewhere in Spain, at least Feron. It's his old playground, according to the Spanish police. And we don't know for sure if Marcheaux and Feron are working together at all, though I think it's highly likely. We must stay vigilant, but let's agree on that for now we should have a couple more weeks without imminent danger lurking around the corner, a little more time to catch our breath and bounce back. With Grimaud, the most dangerous threat is gone.”

Athos quietly looked at Tréville for a short while before speaking again. “Well, I guess the bright side of it all is that Louis has left Paris, and he even paid the invoice Charlène sent him. At least that pain in the backside is gone for now. I hope he took Richelieu with him as well.”

Just then their food arrived. “I fear I'll have to disappoint you in this regard,” Tréville said, picking up his fork and knife. “Last thing I heard from Richelieu was that he is thinking about permanently staying in Paris, he is already looking for a flat or house he can hire.”

Athos groaned. Pondering on the world's blatant injustice, he speared a potato and started eating.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When they had finished their meal, Tréville abandoned the light conversation they had maintained during dinner and returned to their previous topic. “So, to get back to Aramis and his prolonged stay in Spain once again. Last time I spoke with him he seemed to be on the mend, I hope he didn't have a bit of a relapse or something?” he asked worriedly. “If I recall it right, his own words in regard to his health were 'fit as a fiddle'.” 

“Not to my knowledge, no. As far as I know he is fully recovered, Anne would have told me if there was an issue with his medical condition. Well, and who'd have thought that you could live just as well without your spleen?" Athos gazed into the distance, lost in thought. "Having said this, had Feron's knife penetrated just a bit more to the left or right and only scratched one of the other internal organs, it would have ended badly for Aramis. I think that's one of the things still preying on his mind.”

“Are Anne and Henri with him again?”

“No, they were for a while, but not any more. Anne had to return to Paris on business, she and Henri arrived late last night. I spoke to Anne this morning.”

“And Aramis did not return with them?” Tréville asked, genuinely surprised.

“No.”

When it was obvious Athos wouldn't contribute more on the topic, Tréville asked in an undertone of disbelief, “Will he be coming back at all?”

Athos sighed deeply before answering. “Honestly, I don't know.” His doubts about the return of their friend was clearly written all over his face.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

__

_Zarzuela Palace, Madrid  
At the same time_

“ _Buenas tardes, Rodrigo,_ ” King Felipe said, stretching out his hand to greet one of his personal advisers. “I'm glad you had time to see me on such a short notice.”

“ _Buenas tardes, Majestad,_ ” Rodrigo replied, shaking hands with his sovereign. “But of course, for you I have always time.”

“Let's get down to business, I don't have much time,” the Spanish king said, pointing to the couch, offering a seat for his guest before sitting down on the armchair opposite the two-seater. “I have a favour to ask, a task I would like to burden you with, even though I know quite well it's beneath your field of duty.” Felipe gestured to his adviser to help himself to a cup of coffee or a glass of sherry from the small table between them. “I need someone to calm the waves with Paris. The ambassador has managed to make a political misstep to a considerable extent and I want to get back on good terms with the French president. As you know, we've only recently resumed negotiations with the French, which we hope to close in the near future, but if de Mendoza keeps treading on Frenchmen's toes, I doubt this will happen. I need someone to placate, to keep de Mendoza on the right and narrow and to take immediate action if need be. In short, I need someone who keeps an eye on him and handles all things that must be done. I've complete confidence in you, you'd be the right man for this. And I'm sure it wouldn't be for long, I know how efficiently you work.”

Surprised by this unexpected turn the conversation had taken, and internally delighted at the prospect of going to Paris for a while and see to his private little matters on site, Perales answered, “But of course, your majesty, tell me when I should leave. Don't worry, we'll be in good terms with the French again in no time at all.”

King Felipe rubbed his hands delightedly, expressing his content with the other's reply. “That's settled then. Aamir will vest you with appropriate authority, I would be glad if you could leave for Paris as soon as possible. Arrangements for your stay are already being made.” Felipe rose. “I'm sorry, but I need to go, I have another meeting. If possible, report to me directly.” He stepped sideways, waiting for his adviser to round the table. Seeing him off with another firm handshake, Felipe added, “You would have made a good ambassador, I can't understand why you never showed ambitions to aim for such a position.”

“I always found it more desirable to serve the royal family here in Madrid rather than represent Spain abroad,” Perales replied, taking a bow before Felipe left the room. Watching the king leave with his usual entourage, he thought back to the unfortunate time when he had served Felipe's ancestor and bearer of the same name, King Felipe IV – or as the French had called him: Philip IV –, brother to Ana de Austria, _Infanta de España_ and Queen of France, and brother-in-law to the detested King of France, Louis XIII. Wasn't it a strange twist of fate, Perales thought, that he would once more travel to Paris in the name of his king, tasked again with safeguarding the interests of the Spanish crown, just when the very men who had been charged with keeping him safe and led him to death instead, were living and working in this city again? Rather than having to rely on his men in Paris and their fruitless efforts so far in taking revenge, he would finally be able to personally avenge all the wrongdoing he had had to suffer from Rochefort, Louis XIII and his Musketeers. With a bouncing gait, Perales left the Zarzuela palace, looking forward to his stay in Paris.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

__

_Sacromonte, Granada, Spain  
10 days later_

Standing at the far end of the terrace, Aramis let his gaze sweep over the landscape stretching in front of him. The air above the hills was clear and crisp and not yet shimmering in the coming summer's heat, but a warm breeze was already falling down from the Sierra Nevada, caressing his skin. His eyes went up to the snow-covered peak of the Pico del Veleta, and a well-known feeling of melancholia and yearning spread through him. Behind him, he heard someone walk over the terrace's planks, coming closer.

“Aramis,” Athos said, coming to a halt beside his friend. “Come home with me. It's time.”

“I _am_ home,” Aramis replied softly.

“That's not what I meant.”

Tearing his eyes away from the mountain range, Aramis turned his head to look at Athos. “I know. Yet, it seems somehow I've never before felt more at...” Aramis' voice trailed off and he turned to look at the mountains again.

Athos sighed, following Aramis' look over the landscape. “I understand your sentiments. I really do. This place feels like a heavenly shelter and the landscape is stunningly beautiful. But there are people in Paris waiting for you.”

Aramis' gaze caught on the lone, red bobby-car at the far end of the garden, a remnant of Anne and Henri's latest visit. He had not yet put away Henri's toys, always in the hope they'd come back to Sacromonte again soon. He knew, however, it was not them Athos referred to when he spoke of the family waiting for him in France. In a time long gone, Anne had been infanta of Spain, and the love and longing for this land was deeply ingrained in the blood that ran through her veins, even after four centuries. If he asked, she would come and live here with him. “Did you know my maternal grandmother never left Granada in all her life? She never went anywhere outside of Andalusia,” Aramis said, without context, completely ignoring Athos' last words. Pointing to a place across the dell, he added, “There's an old monastery there, you can see the bell tower from here. I've been there a couple of times recently, for prayer and edifying discussions with the abbot, a wise and understanding man. Talking to him did me good.”

Athos groaned. “Don't start all that again, Aramis. I really thought we were through with this topic. I've told you before and will never tire of telling you again and again. You are many things, but you're not a monk.”

Aramis moved his head, frowning at Athos. “Don't be ridiculous. I would never give up Anne and Henri and last time I checked, the Roman Catholic church still insisted on celibacy if you want to become a monk or priest.”

Seating himself on the lounge sofa with a sigh, Athos replied, “Yes, that was my impression too.”

Silence fell between them for a while, disturbed only by the occasional car driving by in the distance.

Athos made a quick nod with his head, gesturing to the wall behind Aramis. “What does it say?”

Aramis turned to look at the faded building inscription Athos referred to, even though he knew it by heart. He read it out loud in Spanish before translating it. “It says that it is better to die a hero than to live a life in the shadow of fear. My great-grandfather was a fierce opponent of the Franco regime. As the saying goes, he never shied away from openly expressing his opinion and standing up for it. It is said to be a miracle that his attitude didn't get him killed.”

“And? What say you? Was he right?” Athos asked.

Aramis rubbed his eyes with both hands, his movements possibly not yet as smooth as they used to be. “Honestly, Athos, I'm not sure if I want to live such a life any longer, the constant risk, the injuries, coming face to face with death one time too much. Look at us. We're not getting younger.”

“Don't let d'Artagnan hear you saying that. He'll never let you live it down. He is, by the way, coming back from Canada this week, his mother was eventually allowed to fly. She will stay with him in Paris for rehab.”

“I'm glad to hear she is better. It would have been horrible if he had lost his mother, too. I'm sure it will do him good having her around for a while.”

“Quite so. In the time when he was back from Canada and his mother was still hospitalised there, he was not himself, even though he went to great lengths to hide it. Not even Porthos was able to cheer him up much. Which leaves only one point on my list now.”

“Who, Porthos?” Aramis asked.

“No, you,” Athos replied in a low voice. “What about you? _Will_ you come home?”

Aramis stared at Athos with an unreadable expression. With a sweeping gesture of his arm to the landscape spreading out around them, he finally looked away. “Give me just one reason why I should abandon this peaceful, quiet life here, why I should trade it for what's waiting in Paris. I'm tired, Athos.”

Athos' face softened, his eyes radiating an unconditional fondness accompanied by a warm smile. “Off the top of my head, I can give you many reasons, but you know every single one for yourself. If you take stock of yourself and listen to your heart, you know what I would say to you.” Athos rose. “I need to catch my flight. Just don't take too long over your decision.” He stepped up to Aramis, saying good-bye with a deep, long hug. After squeezing Aramis' shoulder one last time he turned and left the terrace without looking back.

Aramis watched him go. When he heard an engine start a few minutes later, he finally tore his eyes off the door Athos had left through. His gaze swept back to the mountain range where the setting sun started to turn the highest peaks into the most beautiful blazing pieces of art. Soon the Sierra Nevada would transform into a stunning tableau.

Thinking about Athos' words, a warm smile played around Aramis' lips, spreading, until for once in long weeks, it finally reached his eyes.

 

 

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The journey is not over yet... ;-)

**Author's Note:**

> The Musketeers are property of Alexandre Dumas and BBC One. I only borrowed the characters and the concept of the show for this work of fan fiction. No copyright infringement is intended.


End file.
